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SHAKESPEARE'S   ENGLAND 


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SHAKESPEARE'S 
ENGLAND 


BY 
WILLIAM   WINTER 


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NEW    EDITION 


$tfaj  fork 
THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  Ltd. 
I904 


Copyright,  1892, 
By  MACMILLAN   &  CO. 


First  published  elsewhere.  Set  up  and  electrotyped 
by  Macmillan  &  Co.,  April,  1892.  Reprinted  Novem- 
ber, 1892;  January,  May,  October,  1893;  August,  1894. 
May,  July,  1895;  November,  1896;  October,  1897;  Jan 
uary,  1899;  March,  1900;  November,  1902;  March,  " 
1904. 


Norfoooti  -^msst 

J.  S.  Cushing  &  Co.  •  Berwick  &  Smith. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


-p  R 

Z9I0 

\e>oi- 


TO 


TOjttelafo  Eetti 


IN   HONOUR   OF   EXALTED   VIRTUES 

ADORNING    A    LIFE    OF 

NOBLE  ACHIEVEMENT  AND  PATIENT  KINDNESS 

AND    IN    REMEMBRANCE    OF 

FAITHFUL   AND    GENTLE    FRIENDSHIP 

I   DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK 


11  Turn  meae,  si  quid  loquar  audiendum, 
Vocis  accedet  bona  pars" 


PREFACE. 


Beautiful  and  storied  scenes  that  have 
soothed  and  elevated  the  mind  naturally 
inspire  a  feeling  of  gratitude.  Prompted 
by  that  feeling  the  present  author  has 
written  this  record  of  his  rambles  in  Eng- 
land. It  was  his  wish,  in  dwelling  upon 
the  rural  loveliness  and  the  literary  and 
historical  associations  of  that  delightful 
realm,  to  afford  sympathetic  guidance  and 
useful  suggestion  to  other  American  travel- 
lers who,  like  himself,  might  be  attracted 
to  roam  among  the  shrines  of  the  mother 
land.  There  is  no  pursuit  more  fascinating 
or  in  a  high  intellectual  sense  more  remu- 
nerative ;  since  it  serves  to  define  and  regu- 
late knowledge,  to  correct  misapprehensions 
of  fact,  to  broaden  the  mental  vision,   to 

7 


8  PREFACE. 

ripen  and  refine  the  judgment  and  the 
taste,  and  to  fill  the  memory  with  ennobling 
recollections.  These  papers  commemorate 
two  visits  to  England,  the  first  made  in 
1877,  the  second  in  1882;  they  occasion- 
ally touch  upon  the  same  place  or  scene  as 
observed  at  different  times;  and  especially 
they  describe  two  distinct  journeys,  separ- 
ated by  an  interval  of  five  years,  through 
the  region  associated  with  the  great  name 
of  Shakespeare.  Repetitions  of  the  same 
reference,  which  now  and  then  occur,  were 
found  unavoidable  by  the  writer,  but  it  is 
hoped  that  they  ivill  not  be  found  tedious 
by  the  reader.  Those  who  walk  twice  in 
the  same  pathways  should  be  pleased,  and 
not  pained,  to  find  the  same  wild-flowers 
growing  beside  them.  The  first  American 
edition  of  this  work  consisted  of  two  vol- 
umes, published  in  1879,  1881,  and  1884, 
called  "  The  Trip  to  England  "  and  "  Eng- 
lish Rambles."  The  former  book  was 
embellished  with  poetic  illustrations  by 
Joseph  Jefferson,  the  famous  comedian,  my 


PREFACE.  9 

life-long  friend.  The  paper  on  "  Shake- 
speare's Home,"  —  icritten  to  record  for 
American  readers  the  dedication  of  the 
Shakespeare  Memorial  at  Stratford, — was 
first  printed  in  "Harper's  Magazine,"  in 
May  1879,  with  delicate  illustrative  pic- 
tures from  the  graceful  pencil  of  Edwin 
Abbey.  This  compendium  of  the  "  Trip  " 
and  the  "Rambles,"  with  the  title  of 
11  Shakespeare's  England,"  was  first  pub- 
lished by  David  Douglas  of  Edinburgh. 
That  title  was  chosen  for  the  reason  that 
the  book  relates  largely  to  Warwickshire 
and  because  it  depicts  not  so  much  the 
England  of  fact  as  the  England  created 
and  hallowed  by  the  spirit  of  her  poetry, 
of  ichich  Shakespeare  is  the  soul.  Several 
months  after  the  publication  of  "  Shake- 
speare's England,"  the  icriter  was  told  of 
a  work,  published  many  years  ago,  bearing 
a  similar  title,  though  relating  to  a  different 
theme  —  the  physical  state  of  England  in 
Shakespeare'' s  time.  He  had  never  heard 
of  it  and  has  never  seen  it.     The  text  for  the 


IO  PREFACE. 

present  reprint  has  been  carefully  revised. 
To  his  British  readers  the  author  would  say 
that  it  is  neither  from  lack  of  sympathy  with 
the  happiness  around  him  nor  from  lack  of 
faith  in  the  future  of  his  country  that  his 
writings  have  drifted  toward  the  pathos  in 
human  experience  and  toward  the  hallowing 
associations  of  an  old  historic  land.  Tem- 
perament is  the  explanation  of  style :  and 
he  has  written  thus  of  England  because  she 
has  filled  his  mind  with  beauty  and  his 
heart  with  mingled  joy  and  sad?iess :  and 
surely  some  memory  of  her  venerable  ruins, 
her  ancient  shrines,  her  rustic  glens,  her 
gleaming  rivers,  and  her  flower- spangled 
meadows  will  mingle  with  the  last  thoughts 
that  glimmer  through  Jiis  brain  when  the 
shadows  of  the  eternal  night  are  falling  and 

the  ramble  of  life  is  done. 

W.  W. 

1892. 


CONTENTS. 


L  THE  VOYAGE     . 

H.  THE  BEAUTY  OF   ENGLAND 

in.  GREAT  HISTORIC    PLACES 

IV.  RAMBLES  IN   LONDON 

V.  A  VISIT  TO  WINDSOR 


PAGB 
15 

24 
35 
43 

53 


VI.  THE   PALACE   OF  WESTMINSTER  .        63 

VII.  WARWICK  AND   KENILWORTH  .        73 

VIII.  FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON,  81 

IX.  LONDON   NOOKS  AND  CORNERS  .        94 

X.  RELICS   OF  LORD  BYRON           .  .      104 

XI.  WESTMINSTER   ABBEY      .          .  .111 

Xn.  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME    .          .  .123 

II 


12  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XIII.  UP  TO   LONDON        ...  181 

XIV.  OLD  CHURCHES    OF    LONDON          .  188 
XV.  LITERARY   SHRINES  OF  LONDON  .  199 

XVI.  A   HAUNT   OF   EDMUND    KEAN        .  208 

XVn.  STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY,  215 

XVIII.  AT   THE  GRAVE   OF    COLERIDGE    .  224 

XIX.  ON   BARNET   BATTLE-FIELD             .  233 

XX.  A  GLIMPSE    OF  CANTERBURY         .  239 

XXI.  THE  SHRINES  OF  WARWICKSHIRE,  247 

XXII.  A  BORROWER   OF  THE   NIGHT        .  264 


This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptred  isle, 

This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 

This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise, 

This  fortress  built  by  Nature  for  herself  .  .  . 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea,  .  .  . 

This  blessid  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  Eng' 

land,  •  •  ■ 
This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear,  dear  land, 
Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world! 

Shakespeare. 


All  that  I  saw  returns  upon  my  view ; 
All  that  I  heard  comes  bacK  upon  my  ear ; 
All  that  I  felt  this  moment  doth  renew. 

Fair  land!  by  Time's  parental  love  made  free, 

By  Social  Order's  watchful  arms  embraced, 

With  unexampled  union  meet  in  thee, 

For  eye  and  mind,  the  present  and  the  past ; 

With  golden  Prospect  for  futurity , 

If  that  be  revereticed  which  ought  to  last. 

Wordsworth. 
13 


N 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ENGLAND. 


I. 


THE   VOYAGE. 


T 


1877. 
,3872. 

HE   coast-line  recedes  and  disappears, 

and  night  comes  down  upon  the  ocean. 

Into    what    dangers    will    the    great    ship 

plunge?    Through  what  mysterious  waste 

of  waters  will  she  make  her  viewless  path  ? 

The  black  waves  roll  up  around  her.     The 

strong  blast  fills   her    sails    and   whistles 

through  her  creaking   cordage.     Overhead 

k^     the  stars  shine    dimly    amid    the    driving 

^      clouds.     Mist  and  gloom  close  in  the  dubi- 

l       ous  prospect,  and  a  strange  sadness  settles 

^     upon  the  heart  of   the  voyager — who  has 

\      left  his  home  behind,  and  who  now  seeks, 

vj    for  the  first  time,  the  land,  the  homes,  and 

the  manners  of  the  stranger.    Thoughts  and 

images  of  the  past  crowd  thick  upon  his 

remembrance.     The  faces  of  absent  friends 

rise  up  before  him,  whom,  perhaps,  he  is 

r5 


1 6  THE   VOYAGE. 

destined  nevermore  to  behold.  He  sees 
their  smiles ;  he  hears  their  voices ;  he 
fancies  them  by  familiar  hearthstones,  in 
the  light  of  the  evening  lamps.  They  are 
very  far  away  now ;  and  already  it  seems 
months  instead  of  hours  since  the  parting 
moment.  Vain  now  the  pang  of  regret  for 
misunderstandings,  unkindness,  neglect ; 
for  golden  moments  slighted  and  gentle 
courtesies  left  undone.  He  is  alone  upon 
the  wild  sea  —  all  the  more  alone  because 
surrounded  with  new  faces  of  unknown 
companions  —  and  the  best  he  can  do  is  to 
seek  his  lonely  pillow  and  lie  down  with  a 
prayer  in  his  heart  and  on  his  lips.  Never 
before  did  he  so  clearly  know  —  never  again 
will  he  so  deeply  feel  —  the  uncertainty  of 
human  life  and  the  weakness  of  human 
nature.  Yet,  as  he  notes  the  rush  and 
throb  of  the  vast  ship  and  the  noise  of  the 
breaking  waves  around  her,  and  thinks  of 
the  mighty  deep  beneath,  and  the  broad 
and  melancholy  expanse  that  stretches 
away  on  every  side,  he  cannot  miss  the 
impression  —  grand,  noble,  and  thrilling  — 
of  human  courage,  skill,  and  power.  For 
this  ship  is  the  centre  of  a  splendid  conflict. 
Man  and  the  elements  are  here  at  war ;  and 
man  makes  conquest  of  the  elements  by 


k 


THE  VOYAGE.  1 7 

using  them  as  weapons  against  themselvea. 
Strong  and  brilliant,  the  head-light  streams 
over  the  boiling  surges.  Lanterns  gleam 
in  the  tops.  Dark  figures  keep  watch  upon 
the  prow.  The  officer  of  the  night  is  at  his 
post  upon  the  bridge.  Let  danger  threaten 
howsoev.er  it  may,  it  cannot  come  unawares ; 
it  cannot  subdue,  without  a  tremendous 
struggle,  the  brave  minds  and  hardy  bodies 
that  are  here  arrayed  to  meet  it.  With  this 
thought,  perhaps,  the  weary  voyager  sinks 
to  sleep ;  and  this  is  his  first  night  at 
sea. 

There  is  no  tediousness  of  solitude  to 
him  who  has  within  himself  resources  of 
thought  and  dream,  the  pleasures  and  pains 
of  memory,  the  bliss  and  the  torture  of 
imagination.  It  is  best  to  have  few  ac- 
quaintances —  or  none  —  on  shipboard. 
Human  companionship,  at  some  times,  and 
this  is  one  of  them,  distracts  by  its  petti- 
ness. The  voyager  should  yield  himself 
to  nature  now,  and  meet  his  own  soul  face 
to  face.  The  routine  of  everyday  life  is 
commonplace  enough,  equally  upon  sea  and 
land.  But  the  ocean  is  a  continual  pageant, 
filling  and  soothing  the  mind  with  unspeak- 
able peace.  Never,  in  even  the  grandest 
words  of  poetry,  was  the  grandeur  of  the 

B 


1 8  THE  VOYAGE. 

sea  expressed.  Its  vastness,  its  freedom, 
its  joy,  and  its  beauty  overwhelm  the  mind. 
All  things  else  seem  puny  and  momen- 
tary beside  the  life  that  this  immense  crea- 
tion unfolds  and  inspires.  Sometimes  it 
shines  in  the  sun,  a  wilderness  of  shimmer- 
ing silver.  Sometimes  its  long  waves  are 
black,  smooth,  glittering,  and  dangerous. 
Sometimes  it  seems  instinct  with  a  superb 
wrath,  and  its  huge  masses  rise,  and  clash 
together,  and  break  into  crests  of  foam. 
Sometimes  it  is  gray  and  quiet,  as  if  in  a 
sullen  sleep.  Sometimes  the  white  mist 
broods  upon  it  and  deepens  the  sense  of 
awful  mystery  by  which  it  is  forever  en- 
wrapped. At  night  its  surging  billows 
are  furrowed  with  long  streaks  of  phos- 
phorescent fire ;  or,  it  may  be,  the  waves 
roll  gently,  under  the  soft  light  of  stars  ; 
or  all  the  waste  is  dim,  save  where,  beneath 
the  moon,  a  glorious  pathway,  broadening 
out  to  the  far  horizon,  allures  and  points  to 
heaven.  One  of  the  most  exquisite  delights 
of  the  voyage,  whether  by  day  or  night,  is 
to  lie  upon  the  deck  in  some  secluded  spot, 
and  look  up  at  the  tall,  tapering  spars  as 
they  sway  with  the  motion  of  the  ship, 
while  over  them  the  white  clouds  float,  in 
ever-changing  shapes,   or  the  starry   con- 


THE  VOYAGE.  1 9 

stellations  drift,  in  their  eternal  march. 
No  need  now  of  books,  or  newspapers,  or 
talk  !  The  eyes  are  fed  by  every  object 
they  behold.  The  great  ship,  with  all  her 
white  wings  spread,  careening  like  a  tiny 
sail-boat,  dips  and  rises,  with  sinuous, 
stately  grace.  The  clank  of  her  engines  — 
fit  type  of  steadfast  industry  and  purpose  — 
goes  steadily  on.     The  song  of  the  sailors 

—  "  Give  me  some  time  to  blow  the  man 
down" — rises  in  cheery  melody,  full  of 
audacious,  light-hearted  thoughtlessness, 
and  strangely  tinged  with  the  romance  of 
the  sea.  Far  out  toward  the  horizon  a 
school  of  whales  come  sporting  and  spout- 
ing along.  At  once,  out  of  the  distant 
bank  of  cloud  and  mist,  a  little  vessel 
springs  into  view,  and  with  convulsive 
movement — tilting  up  and  down  like  the 
miniature  barque  upon  an  old  Dutch  clock 

—  dances  across  the  vista  and  vanishes  into 
space.  Soon  a  tempest  bursts  upon  the 
calm ;  and  then,  safe-housed  from  the 
fierce  blast  and  blinding  rain,  the  voy- 
ager exults  over  the  stern  battle  of  winds 
and  waters  and  the  stalwart,  undaunted 
strength  with  which  his  ship  bears  down 
the  furious  floods  and  stems  the  gale.  By 
and  by  a  quiet  hour  is  given,  when,  met 


20  THE  VOYAGE. 

together  with  the  companions  of  his  journey, 
he  stands  in  the  hushed  cabin  and  hears  the 
voice  of  prayer  and  the  hymn  of  praise, 
and,  in  the  pauses,  a  gentle  ripple  of  waves 
against  the  ship,  which  now  rocks  lazily 
upon  the  quiet  deep ;  and,  ever  and  anon, 
as  she  dips,  he  can  discern  through  her 
open  ports  the  shining  sea  and  the  wheel- 
ing and  circling  gulls  that  have  come  out 
to  welcome  her  to  the  shores  of  the  old 
world. 

The  present  writer,  when  first  he  saw  the 
distant  and  dim  coast  of  Britain,  felt,  with 
a  sense  of  forlorn  loneliness  that  he  was  a 
stranger  ;  but  when  last  he  saw  that  coast 
he  beheld  it  through  a  mist  of  tears  and 
knew  that  he  had  parted  from  many  cher- 
ished friends,  from  many  of  the  gentlest 
men  and  women  upon  the  earth,  and  from 
a  land  henceforth  as  dear  to  him  as  his 
own.  England  is  a  country  which  to  see  is 
to  love.  As  you  draw  near  to  her  shores 
you  are  pleased  at  once  with  the  air  of  care- 
less finish  and  negligent  grace  that  every- 
where overhangs  the  prospect.  The  grim, 
wind-beaten  hills  of  Ireland  have  first  been 
passed  —  hills  crowned,  here  and  there,  with 
dark,  fierce  towers  that  look  like  strong- 
holds of  ancient  bandit  chiefs,  and  cleft  by 


THE   VOYAGE.  21 

dim  valleys  that  seem  to  promise  endless 
mystery  and  romance,  hid  in  their  sombre 
depths.  Passed  also  is  white  Queenstown, 
with  its  lovely  little  bay,  its  circle  of  green 
hillsides,  and  its  valiant  fort ;  and  pictur- 
esque Fastnet,  with  its  gaily  painted  tower, 
has  long  been  left  behind.  It  is  off  the 
noble  crags  of  Holyhead  that  the  voyager 
first  observes  with  what  a  deft  skill  the 
hand  of  art  has  here  moulded  nature's 
luxuriance  into  forms  of  seeming  chance- 
born  beauty  ;  and  from  that  hour,  wher- 
ever in  rural  England  the  footsteps  of  the 
pilgrim  may  roam,  he  will  behold  nothing 
but  gentle  rustic  adornment,  that  has  grown 
with  the  grass  and  the  roses  —  greener  grass 
and  redder  roses  than  ever  we  see  in  our 
western  world  !  In  the  English  nature  a 
love  of  the  beautiful  is  spontaneous,  and 
the  operation  of  it  is  as  fluent  as  the 
blowing  of  the  summer  wind.  Portions  of 
English  cities,  indeed,  are  hard  and  harsh 
and  coarse  enough  to  suit  the  most  utili- 
tarian taste  ;  yet  even  in  those  regions  of 
dreary  monotony  the  national  love  of  flow- 
ers will  find  expression,  and  the  people, 
without  being  aware  of  it,  will,  in  many 
odd  little  ways,  beautify  their  homes  and 
make  their  surroundings  pictorial,  at  least 


22  THE  VOYAGE. 

to  stranger  eyes.  There  is  a  tone  of  rest  and 
home-like  comfort  even  in  murky  Liverpool ; 
and  great  magnificence  is  there  —  as  well  of 
architecture  and  opulent  living  as  of  enter- 
prise and  action.  "Towered  cities"  and 
"  the  busy  hum  of  men,"  however,  are  soon 
left  behind  by  the  wise  traveller  in  England. 
A  time  will  come  for  these  ;  but  in  his  first 
sojourn  there  he  soon  discovers  the  two 
things  that  are  utterly  to  absorb  him  — 
which  cannot  disappoint  —  and  which  are  the 
fulfilment  of  all  his  dreams.  These  things 
are  —  the  rustic  loveliness  of  the  land  and 
the  charm  of  its  always  vital  and  splendid 
antiquity.  The  green  lanes,  the  thatched 
cottages,  the  meadows  glorious  with  wild- 
flowers,  the  little  churches  covered  with 
dark-green  ivy,  the  Tudor  gables  festooned 
with  roses,  the  devious  footpaths  that  wind 
across  wild  heaths  and  long  and  lonesome 
fields,  the  narrow,  shining  rivers,  brimful 
to  their  banks  and  crossed  here  and  there 
with  gray  and  moss-grown  bridges,  the 
stately  elms  whose  low-hanging  branches 
droop  over  a  turf  of  emerald  velvet,  the 
gnarled  beech- trees  ' '  that  wreathe  their  old, 
fantastic  roots  so  high,"  the  rooks  that  caw 
and  circle  in  the  air,  the  sweet  winds  that 
blow  from  fragrant  woods,  the  sheep  and 


THE  VOYAGE.  2$ 

the  deer  that  rest  in  shady  places,  the  pretty 
children  who  cluster  round  the  porches  of 
their  cleanly,  cosy  homes,  and  peep  at  the 
wayfarer  as  he  passes,  the  numerous  and 
often  brilliant  birds  that  at  times  fill  the  air 
with  music,  the  brief,  light,  pleasant  rains 
that  ever  and  anon  refresh  the  landscape  — 
these  are  some  of  the  everyday  joys  of 
rural  England  ;  and  these  are  wrapped  in  a 
climate  that  makes  life  one  serene  ecstasy. 
Meantime,  in  rich  valleys  or  on  verdant 
slopes,  a  thousand  old  castles  and  monas- 
teries, ruined  or  half  in  ruins,  allure  the 
pilgrim's  gaze,  inspire  his  imagination, 
arouse  his  memory,  and  fill  his  mind.  The 
best  romance  of  the  past  and  the  best  real- 
ity of  the  present  are  his  banquet  now ; 
and  nothing  is  wanting  to  the  perfection  of 
the  feast.  I  thought  that  life  could  have 
but  few  moments  of  content  in  store  for  me 
like  the  moment  —  never  to  be  forgotten  !  — 
when,  in  the  heart  of  London,  on  a  perfect 
June  day,  I  lay  upon  the  grass  in  the  old 
Green  Park,  and,  for  the  first  time,  looked 
up  to  the  towers  of  Westminster  Abbey. 


24  THE  BEAUTY   OF  ENGLAND. 


«      II. 

THE    BEAUTY   OF   ENGLAND. 

IT  is  not  strange  that  Englishmen  should 
be  —  as  certainly  they  are  —  passionate 
lovers  of  their  country  ;  for  their  country 
is,  almost  beyond  parallel,  peaceful,  gentle, 
and  beautiful.  Even  in  vast  London,  where 
practical  life  asserts  itself  with  such  pro- 
digious force,  the  stranger  is  impressed, 
in  every  direction,  with  a  sentiment  of  re- 
pose and  peace.  This  sentiment  seems  to 
proceed  in  part  from  the  antiquity  of  the 
social  system  here  established,  and  in  part 
from  the  affectionate  nature  of  the  English 
people.  Here  are  finished  towns,  rural 
regions  thoroughly  cultivated  and  exqui- 
sitely adorned  ;  ancient  architecture,  crum- 
bling in  slow  decay  ;  and  a  soil  so  rich  and 
pure  that  even  in  its  idlest  mood  it  lights 
itself  up  with  flowers,  just  as  the  face  of  a 
sleeping  child  lights  itself  up  with  smiles. 
Here,  also,  are  soft  and  kindly  manners, 
settled  principles,  good  laws,  wise  customs 


THE  BEAUTY   OF  ENGLAND.  25 

—  wise,  because  rooted  in  the  universal  at- 
tributes of  human  nature  ;  and,  above  all, 
here  is  the  practice  of  trying  to  live  in  a 
happy  condition  instead  of  trying  to  make 
a  noise  about  it.  Here,  accordingly,  life  is 
soothed  and  hallowed  with  the  comfortable, 
genial,  loving  spirit  of  home.  It  would, 
doubtless,  be  easily  possible  to  come  into 
contact  here  with  absurd  forms  and  per- 
nicious abuses,  to  observe  absurd  indi- 
viduals, and  to  discover  veins  of  sordid 
selfishness  and  of  evil  and  sorrow.  But 
the  things  that  first  and  most  deeply  im- 
press the  observer  of  England  and  English 
society  are  their  potential,  manifold,  and 
abundant  sources  of  beauty,  refinement,  and 
peace.  There  are,  of  course,  grumblers. 
Mention  has  been  made  of  a  person  who, 
even  in  heaven,  would  complain  that  his 
cloud  was  damp  and  his  halo  a  misfit.  We 
cannot  have  perfection ;  but  the  man  who 
could  not  be  happy  in  England  —  in  so  far, 
at  least,  as  happiness  depends  upon  external 
objects  and  influences  —  could  not  reason- 
ably expect  to  be  happy  anywhere. 

Summer  heat  is  perceptible  for  an  hour  or 
two  each  day,  but  it  causes  no  discomfort. 
Fog  has  refrained ;  though  it  is  understood 
to  be  lurking  in  the  Irish  sea  and  the  English 


26  THE  BEAUTY   OF   ENGLAND. 

channel,  and  waiting  for  November,  when 
it  will  drift  into  town  and  grime  all  the  new 
paint  on  the  London  houses.  Meantime, 
the  sky  is  softly  blue  and  full  of  magnifi- 
cent bronze  clouds  ;  the  air  is  cool,  and  in 
the  environs  of  the  city  is  fragrant  with 
the  scent  of  new-mown  hay  ;  and  the  grass 
and  trees  in  the  parks  —  those  copious  and 
splendid  lungs  of  London  —  are  green,  dewy, 
sweet,  and  beautiful.  Persons  "to  the 
manner  born"  were  lately  calling  the  sea- 
son "backward,"  and  they  went  so  far  as 
to  grumble  at  the  hawthorn,  as  being  less 
brilliant  than  in  former  seasons.  But,  in 
fact,  to  the  unfamiliar  sense,  this  tree  of 
odorous  coral  has  been  delicious.  We  have 
nothing  comparable  with  it  in  northern 
America,  unless,  perhaps,  it  be  the  elder,  of 
our  wild  woods  ;  and  even  that,  with  all  its 
fragrance,  lacks  equal  charm  of  colour.  They 
use  the  hawthorn,  or  some  kindred  shrub, 
for  hedges  in  this  country,  and  hence  their 
fields  are  seldom  disfigured  with  fences.  As 
you  ride  through  the  land  you  see  miles  and 
miles  of  meadow  traversed  by  these  green 
and  blooming  hedgerows,  which  give  the 
country  a  charm  quite  incommunicable  in 
words.  The  green  of  the  foliage  —  enriched 
by  an  uncommonly  humid  air  and  burnished 


THE  BEAUTY   OF  ENGLAND.  27 

by  the  sun  —  is  in  perfection,  while  the 
flowers  bloom  in  such  abundance  that  the 
whole  realm  is  one  glowing  pageant.  I 
saw  near  Oxford,  on  the  crest  of  a  hill,  a 
single  ray  of  at  least  a  thousand  feet  of 
scarlet  poppies.  Imagine  that  glorious  dash 
of  colour  in  a  green  landscape  lit  by  the  af- 
ternoon sun  !  Nobody  could  help  loving  a 
land  that  wooes  him  with  such  beauty. 

English  flowers  are  exceptional  for  sub- 
stance and  pomp.  The  roses,  in  particular 
—  though  many  of  them,  it  should  be  said, 
are  of  French  breeds  —  surpass  all  others. 
It  may  seem  an  extravagance  to  say,  but 
it  is  certainly  true,  that  these  rich,  firm, 
brilliant  flowers  affect  you  like  creatures  of 
flesh  and  blood.  They  are,  in  this  respect, 
only  to  be  described  as  like  nothing  in  the 
world  so  much  as  the  bright  lips  and  blush- 
ing cheeks  of  the  handsome  English  women 
who  walk  among  them  and  vie  with  them 
in  health  and  loveliness.  It  is  easy  to  per- 
ceive the  source  of  those  elements  of  warmth 
and  sumptuousness  that  are  so  conspicu- 
ous in  the  results  of  English  taste.  It  is  a 
land  of  flowers.  Even  in  the  busiest  parts 
of  London  the  people  decorate  their  houses 
with  them,  and  set  the  sombre,  fog- grimed 
fronts  ablaze  with  scarlet  and  gold.     These 


28  THE  BEAUTY   OF   ENGLAND. 

are  the  prevalent  colours  —  radically  so,  for 
they  have  become  national  —  and,  when 
placed  against  the  black  tint  with  which 
this  climate  stains  the  buildings,  they  have 
the  advantage  of  a  vivid  contrast  that 
much  augments  their  splendour.  All  Lon- 
don wears  crape,  variegated  with  a  tracery 
of  white,  like  lace  upon  a  pall.  In  some 
instances  the  effect  is  splendidly  pompous. 
There  cannot  be  a  grander  artificial  object 
in  the  world  than  the  front  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  which  is  especially  notable  for 
this  mysterious  blending  of  light  and  shade. 
It  is  to  be  deplored  that  a  climate  which 
can  thus  beautify  should  also  destroy  ;  but 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  stones  of 
England  are  steadily  defaced  by  the  action 
of  the  damp  atmosphere.  Already  the  deli- 
cate carvings  on  the  Palace  of  Westmin- 
ster are  beginning  to  crumble.  And  yet, 
if  one  might  judge  the  climate  by  this 
glittering  July,  England  is  a  land  of  sun- 
shine as  well  as  of  flowers.  Light  comes 
before  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  it 
lasts,  through  a  dreamy  and  lovely  "gloam- 
ing," till  nearly  ten  o'clock  at  night.  The 
morning  sky  is  usually  light  blue,  dappled 
with  slate-coloured  clouds.  A  few  large 
stars  are  visible  then,  lingering  to  outface 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  ENGLAND.  29 

the  dawn.  Cool  winds  whisper,  and  pres- 
ently they  rouse  the  great,  sleepy,  old 
elms  ;  and  then  the  rooks  —  which  are  the 
low  comedians  of  the  air  in  this  region  — 
begin  to  grumble ;  and  then  the  sun  leaps 
above  the  horizon,  and  we  sweep  into  a  day 
of  golden,  breezy  cheerfulness  and  comfort, 
the  like  of  which  is  rarely  or  never  known 
in  New  York,  between  June  and  October. 
Sometimes  the  whole  twenty- four  hours 
have  drifted  past,  as  if  in  a  dream  of  light, 
and  fragrance,  and  music.  In  a  recent 
moonlight  time  there  was  scarce  any  dark- 
ness at  all ;  and  more  than  once  I  have 
lain  awake  all  night,  within  a  few  miles 
of  Charing  Cross,  listening  to  a  twitter  of 
birds  that  is  like  the  lapse  and  fall  of  silver 
water.  It  used  to  be  difficult  to  under- 
stand why  the  London  season  should  begin 
in  May  and  last  through  most  of  the  sum- 
mer;  it  is  not  difficult  to  understand  the 
custom  now. 

The  elements  of  discontent  and  disturb- 
ance  which  are  visible  in  English  society 
are  found,  upon  close  examination,  to  be 
merely  superficial.  Underneath  them  there 
abides  a  sturdy,  immutable,  inborn  love 
of  England.  These  croakings,  grumblings, 
and  bickerings  do  but  denote  the  process  by 


36  THE   BEAUTY   OF   ENGLAND. 

which  the  body  politic  frees  itself  from  the 
headaches  and  fevers  that  embarrass  the 
national  health.  The  Englishman  and  his 
country  are  one  ;  and  when  the  Englishman 
complains  against  his  country  it  is  not  be- 
cause he  believes  that  either  there  is  or  can 
be  a  better  country  elsewhere,  but  because 
his  instinct  of  justice  and  order  makes  him 
crave  perfection  in  his  own.  Institutions 
and  principles  are,  with  him,  by  nature, 
paramount  to  individuals ;  and  individuals 
only  possess  importance  —  and  that  condi- 
tional on  abiding  rectitude  —  who  are  their 
representatives.  Everything  is  done  in 
England  to  promote  the  permanence  and 
beauty  of  the  home ;  and  the  permanence 
and  beauty  of  the  home,  by  a  natural  re- 
action, augment  in  the  English  people  so- 
lidity of  character  and  peace  of  life.  They 
do  not  dwell  in  a  perpetual  fret  and  fume 
as  to  the  acts,  thoughts,  and  words  of  other 
nations  :  for  the  English  there  is  absolutely 
no  public  opinion  outside  of  their  own  land  : 
they  do  not  live  for  the  sake  of  working, 
but  they  work  for  the  sake  of  living ;  and, 
as  the  necessary  preparations  for  living  have 
long  since  been  completed,  their  country  is 
at  rest.  This  is  the  secret  of  England's 
first,  and  continuous,  and  last,  and  all-per- 


THE  BEAUTY   OF   ENGLAND.  3 1 

vading  charm  and  power  for  the  stranger 
—  the  charm  and  power  to  soothe. 

The  efficacy  of  endeavouring  to  make  a 
country  a  united,  comfortable,  and  beautiful 
home  for  all  its  inhabitants,  —  binding  every 
heart  to  the  land  by  the  same  tie  that  binds 
every  heart  to  the  fireside,  —  is  something 
well  worthy  to  be  considered,  equally  by 
the  practical  statesman  and  the  contempla- 
tive observer.  That  way,  assuredly,  lie  the 
welfare  of  the  human  race  and  all  the  tran- 
quillity that  human  nature  —  warped  as  it 
is  by  evil  —  will  ever  permit  to  this  world. 
This  endeavour  has,  through  long  ages,  been 
steadily  pursued  in  England,  and  one  of  its 
results  —  which  is  also  one  of  its  indica- 
tions—  is  the  vast  accumulation  of  what 
may  be  called  home  treasures  in  the  city  of 
London.  The  mere  enumeration  of  them 
would  fill  large  volumes.  The  description 
of  them  could  not  be  completed  in  a  lifetime. 
It  was  this  copiousness  of  historic  wealth 
and  poetic  association,  combined  with  the 
flavour  of  character  and  the  sentiment  of 
monastic  repose,  that  bound  Dr.  Johnson 
to  Fleet  Street  and  made  Charles  Lamb 
such  an  inveterate  lover  of  the  town. 
Except  it  be  to  correct  a  possible  insular 
narrowness  there  can  be  no  need  that  the 


32  THE  BEAUTY   OF   ENGLAND. 

Londoner  should  travel.  Glorious  sights, 
indeed,  await  him,  if  he  journeys  no  further 
away  than  Paris ;  but,  aside  from  ostenta- 
tion, luxury,  gaiety,  and  excitement,  Paris 
will  give  him  nothing  that  he  may  not  find 
at  home.  The  great  cathedral  of  Notre 
Dame  will  awe  him  ;  but  not  more  than  his 
own  Westminster  Abbey.  The  grandeur 
and  beauty  of  the  Madeleine  will  enchant 
him ;  but  not  more  than  the  massive  so- 
lemnity and  stupendous  magnificence  of 
St.  Paul's.  The  embankments  of  the  Seine 
will  satisfy  his  taste  with  their  symmetri- 
cal solidity;  but  he  will  not  deem  them 
superior  in  any  respect  to  the  embank- 
ments of  the  Thames.  The  Pantheon, 
the  Hotel  des  Invalides,  the  Luxembourg, 
the  Louvre,  the  Tribunal  of  Commerce,  the 
Opera-House,  —  all  these  will  dazzle  and  de- 
light his  eyes,  arousing  his  remembrances 
of  history  and  firing  his  imagination  of 
great  events  and  persons ;  but  all  these  will 
fail  to  displace  in  his  esteem  the  grand 
Palace  of  Westminster,  so  stately  in  its 
simplicity,  so  strong  in  its  perfect  grace ! 
He  will  ride  through  the  exquisite  Park 
of  Monceau  —  one  of  the  loveliest  spots 
in  Paris,  —  and  onward  to  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,   with   its   sumptuous    pomp    of 


THE  BEAUTY   OF  ENGLAND.  3$ 

foliage,  its  romantic  green  vistas,  its  many- 
winding    avenues,    its    hillside    hermitage, 
its  cascades,  and  its  affluent  lakes  whereon 
the    white    swans    beat    the    water    with 
their  joyous  wings ;  but  his  soul  will  still 
turn,  with  unshaken  love  and  loyal  prefer- 
ence to  the  sweetly  sylvan  solitude  of  the 
gardens  of  Kensington  and  Kew.     He  will 
marvel  in   the   museums    of    the    Louvre, 
the   Luxembourg,  and   Cluny;    and  prob- 
ably he  will   concede   that    of    paintings, 
whether  ancient  or   modern,    the    French 
display  is  larger  and  finer  than  the  Eng- 
lish ;  but  he  will  vaunt  the  British  Museum 
as  peerless  throughout  the  world,  and  he 
will  still  prize  his  National  Gallery,  with 
its  originals  of  Hogarth,  Eeynolds,  Gains- 
borough, and  Turner,  its  spirited,  tender, 
and  dreamy  Murillos,  and  its  dusky  glories 
of   Eembrandt.      He   will   admire,    at  the 
Theatre  Francais,  the  photographic  perfec- 
tion of  French  acting;  but  he  will  be  apt 
to  reflect  that  English  dramatic  art,  if  it 
sometimes  lacks  finish,  sometimes  possesses 
nature  ;  and  he  will  certainly  perceive  that 
the  playhouse  itself  is  not  superior  to  either 
Her  Majesty's  Theatre  or  Covent  Garden. 
He  will  luxuriate  in  the  Champs  Elys6es, 
in  the  superb  Boulevards,  in  the  glittering 


34  THE   BEAUTY   OF   ENGLAND. 

pageant  of  precious  jewels  that  blazes  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  the  Palais  Royal, 
and  in  that  gorgeous  panorama  of  shop- 
windows  for  which  the  French  capital  is 
unrivalled  and  famous  ;  and  he  will  not 
deny  that,  as  to  brilliancy  of  aspect,  Paris 
is  prodigious  and  unequalled  —  the  most 
radiant  of  cities  —  the  sapphire  in  the  crown 
of  Solomon.  But,  when  all  is  seen,  either 
that  Louis  the  Fourteenth  created  or  Buon- 
aparte pillaged,  —  when  he  has  taken  his 
last  walk  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 
and  mused,  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of 
Caesar,  on  that  Titanic  strife  of  monarchy 
and  democracy  of  which  France  has  seemed 
destined  to  be  the  perpetual  theatre,  — sated 
with  the  glitter  of  showy  opulence  and  tired 
with  the  whirl  of  frivolous  life  he  will  gladly 
and  gratefully  turn  again  to  his  sombre, 
mysterious,  thoughtful,  restful  old  London ; 
and,  like  the  Syrian  captain,  though  in  the 
better  spirit  of  truth  and  right,  declare  that 
Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damascus 
are  better  than  all  the  waters  of  Israel. 


GREAT    HISTORIC   PLACES.  35 


III. 

GREAT    HISTORIC   PLACES. 

THERE  is  so  much  to  be  seen  in  London 
that  the  pilgrim  scarcely  knows  where 
to  choose  and  certainly  is  perplexed  by 
what  Dr.  Johnson  called  ' '  the  multiplicity 
of  agreeable  consciousness."  One  spot  to 
which  I  have  many  times  been  drawn,  and 
which  the  mention  of  Dr.  Johnson  instantly 
calls  to  mind,  is  the  stately  and  solemn 
place  in  Westminster  Abbey  where  that 
great  man's  ashes  are  buried.  Side  by  side, 
under  the  pavement  of  the  Abbey,  within  a 
few  feet  of  earth,  sleep  Johnson,  Garrick, 
Sheridan,  Henderson,  Dickens,  Cumberland, 
and  Handel.  Garrick' s  wife  is  buried  in  the 
same  grave  with  her  husband.  Close  by, 
some  brass  letters  on  a  little  slab  in  the 
stone  floor  mark  the  last  resting-place  of 
Thomas  Campbell.  Not  far  off  is  the  body 
of  Macaulay;  while  many  a  stroller  through 
the  nave  treads  upon  the  gravestone  of  that 
astonishing    old  man  Thomas  Parr,   who 


36  GREAT    HISTORIC   PLACES. 

lived  in  the  reigns  of  nine  princes  (1483- 
1635),  and  reached  the  great  age  of  152. 
All  parts  of  Westminster  Abbey  impress 
the  reverential  mind.  It  is  an  experience 
very  strange  and  full  of  awe  suddenly  to 
find  your  steps  upon  the  sepulchres  of  such 
illustrious  men  as  Burke,  Pitt,  Fox,  and 
Grattan ;  and  you  come,  with  a  thrill  of 
more  than  surprise,  upon  such  still  fresh 
antiquity  as  the  grave  of  Anne  Neville,  the 
daughter  of  Warwick  and  Queen  of  Rich- 
ard the  Third.  But  no  single  spot  in  the 
great  cathedral  can  so  enthral  the  imagina- 
tion as  that  strip  of  storied  stone  beneath 
which  Garrick,  Johnson,  Sheridan,  Hender- 
son, Cumberland,  Dickens,  Macaulay,  Ar- 
gyle,  and  Handel  sleep,  side  by  side.  This 
writer,  when  lately  he  visited  the  Abbey, 
found  a  chair  upon  the  grave  of  Johnson, 
and  sat  down  there  to  rest  and  muse.  The 
letters  on  the  stone  are  fast  wearing  away; 
but  the  memory  of  that  sturdy  champion 
of  thought  can  never  perish,  as  long  as  the 
votaries  of  literature  love  their  art  and 
honour  the  valiant  genius  that  battled  — 
through  hunger,  toil,  and  contumely  —  for 
its  dignity  and  renown.  It  was  a  tender 
and  right  feeling  that  prompted  the  burial 
of  Johnson  close  beside  Garrick.    They  set 


GREAT    HISTORIC   PLACES.  37 

out  together  to  seek  their  fortune  in  the 
great  city.  They  went  through  privation 
and  trial  hand  in  hand.  Each  found  glory 
in  a  different  way ;  and,  although  parted 
afterward  by  the  currents  of  fame  and 
wealth,  they  were  never  sundered  in  affec- 
tion. It  was  fit  they  should  at  last  find 
their  rest  together,  under  the  most  glorious 
roof  that  greets  the  skies  of  England. 

Fortune  gave  me  a  good  first  day  at  the 
Tower  of  London.  The  sky  lowered.  The 
air  was  very  cold.  The  wind  blew  with 
angry  gusts.  The  rain  fell,  now  and  then, 
in  a  chill  drizzle.  The  river  was  dark  and 
sullen.  If  the  spirits  of  the  dead  come  back 
to  haunt  any  place  they  surely  come  back 
to  haunt  that  one  ;  and  this  was  a  day  for 
their  presence.  One  dark  ghost  seemed 
near,  at  every  step  —  the  ominous  shade  of 
the  lonely  Duke  of  Gloster.  The  little  room 
in  which  the  princes  are  said  to  have  been 
murdered,  by  his  command,  was  shown, 
and  the  oratory  where  King  Henry  the 
Sixth  is  supposed  to  have  met  his  bloody 
death,  and  the  council  chamber,  in  which 
Richard  —  after  listening,  in  an  ambush  be- 
hind the  arras  —  denounced  the  wretched 
Hastings.  The  latter  place  is  now  used  as 
an  armoury;  but  the  same  ceiling  covers  it 


38  GREAT   HISTORIC   PLACES. 

that  echoed  the  bitter  invective  of  Gloster 
and  the  rude  clamour  of  his  soldiers,  when 
their  frightened  victim  was  plucked  forth 
and  dragged  downstairs,  to  be  beheaded 
on  "  a  timber-log"  in  the  courtyard.  The 
Tower  is  a  place  for  such  deeds,  and  you 
almost  wonder  that  they  do  not  happen 
still,  in  its  gloomy  chambers.  The  room 
in  which  the  princes  were  killed  (if  killed 
indeed  they  were)  is  particularly  grisly  in 
aspect.  It  is  an  inner  room,  small  and 
dark.  A  barred  window  in  one  of  its  walls 
fronts  a  window  on  the  other  side  of  the 
passage  by  which  you  approach  it.  This  is 
but  a  few  feet  from  the  floor,  and  perhaps 
the  murderers  paused  to  look  through  it  as 
they  went  to  their  hellish  work  upon  the 
poor  children  of  King  Edward.  The  en- 
trance was  pointed  out  to  a  secret  passage 
by  which  this  apartment  could  be  ap- 
proached from  the  foot  of  the  Tower.  In 
one  gloomy  stone  chamber  the  crown  jew- 
els are  exhibited,  in  a  large  glass  case. 
One  of  the  royal  relics  is  a  crown  of  velvet 
and  gold  that  was  made  for  poor  Anne 
Boleyn.  You  may  pass  across  the  court- 
yard and  pause  on  the  spot  where  that 
miserable  woman  was  beheaded,  and  you 
may  walk  thence  over  the  ground  that  her 


GREAT    HISTORIC  PLACES.  39 

last  trembling  footsteps  traversed,  to  the 
round  tower  in  which,  at  the  close,  she 
lived.  Her  grave  is  in  the  chancel  of  the 
little  antique  church,  close  by.  I  saw  the 
cell  of  Raleigh,  and  that  direful  chamber 
which  is  scrawled  all  over  with  the  names 
and  emblems  of  prisoners  who  therein  suf- 
fered confinement  and  lingering  agony, 
nearly  always  ending  in  death ;  but  I  saw 
no  sadder  place  than  Anne  Boleyn's  tower. 
It  seemed  in  the  strangest  way  eloquent  of 
mute  suffering.  It  seemed  to  exhale  grief 
and  to  plead  for  love  and  pity.  Yet  — 
what  woman  ever  had  greater  love  than  was 
lavished  on  her?  And  what  woman  ever 
trampled  more  royally  and  recklessly  upon 
human  hearts  ? 

The  Tower  of  London  is  degraded  by 
being  put  to  commonplace  uses  and  by 
being  exhibited  in  a  commonplace  manner. 
They  use  the  famous  White  Tower  now  as  a 
store-house  for  arms,  and  it  contains  about 
one  hundred  thousand  guns,  besides  a  vast 
collection  of  old  armour  and  weapons.  The 
arrangement  of  the  latter  was  made  by 
J.  R.  Planche,  the  dramatic  author, — fa- 
mous as  an  antiquarian  and  a  herald.  [That 
learned,  able,  brilliant,  and  honoured  gen- 
tleman died,  May  29,  1880,  aged  84.]    Under 


40  GREAT   HISTORIC    PLACES. 

iris  tasteful  direction  the  effigies  and  gear 
of  chivalry  are  displayed  in  such  a  way 
that  the  observer  may  trace  the  changes 
that  war  fashions  have  undergone,  through 
the  reigns  of  successive  sovereigns  of  Eng- 
land, from  the  earliest  period  until  now.  A 
suit  of  mail  worn  by  Henry  the  Eighth  is 
shown,  and  also  a  suit  worn  by  Charles  the 
First.  The  suggestiveness  of  both  figures 
is  remarkable.  In  a  room  on  the  second 
floor  of  the  White  Tower  they  keep  many 
gorgeous  oriental  weapons,  and  they  show 
the  cloak  in  which  General  Wolfe  died,  on 
the  Plains  of  Abraham.  It  is  a  gray  gar- 
ment, to  which  the  active  moth  has  given  a 
share  of  his  assiduous  attention.  The  most 
impressive  objects  to  be  seen  there,  how- 
ever, are  the  block  and  axe  that  were  used 
in  beheading  the  traitor  lords,  Kilmarnock, 
Balmerino,  and  Lovat,  after  the  defeat  of 
the  pretender,  in  1746.  The  block  is  of 
ash,  and  there  are  big  and  cruel  dents 
upon  it,  showing  that  it  was  -  made  for 
use  rather  than  ornament.  It  is  harmless 
enough  now,  and  this  writer  was  allowed 
to  place  his  head  upon  it,  in  the  manner 
prescribed  for  the  victims  of  decapitation. 
The  door  of  Raleigh's  bedroom  is  opposite 
to  these  baleful  relics,  and  it  is  said  that 


GREAT   HISTORIC   PLACES.  4 1 

his  History  of  the  World  was  written  in  the 
room  in  which  these  implements  are  now 
such  conspicuous  objects  of  gloom.1  The 
place  is  gloomy  and  cheerless  beyond  ex- 
pression, and  great  must  have  been  the 
fortitude  of  the  man  who  bore,  in  that  grim 
solitude,  a  captivity  of  thirteen  years  — 
not  failing  to  turn  it  to  the  best  account, 
by  producing  a  book  so  excellent  for  quaint- 
ness,  philosophy,  and  eloquence.  A  "beef- 
eater," arrayed  in  a  dark  tunic,  trousers 
trimmed  with  red,  and  a  black  velvet 
hat  adorned  with  bows  of  blue  and  red 
ribbon,  precedes  each  group  of  visitors, 
and  drops  information  and  h's,  from  point 
to  point.  The  centre  of  what  was  once 
the  Tower  Green  is  marked  with  a  brass 
plate,  naming  Anne  Boleyn  and  giving  the 
date  when  she  was  there  beheaded.  They 
found  her  body  in  an  elm-wood  box,  made 
to  hold  arrows,  and  it  now  rests,  with  the 
ashes  of  other  noble  sufferers,  under  the 
stones  of  the  church  of  St.  Peter,  about  fifty 
feet  from  the  place  of  execution.  The  ghost 
of  Anne  Boleyn  is  said  to  haunt  that  part 
of  the  Tower  where  she  lived,  and  it  is  like- 
wise whispered  that  the  spectre  of  Lady 

1  Many  of  these  relics  have  since  been  disposed 
in  a  different  way. 


42  GREAT    HISTORIC  PLACES. 

Jane  Grey  was  seen,  not  long  ago,  on  the 
anniversary  of  the  day  of  her  execution 
[Ohiit  1554],  to  glide  out  upon  a  balcony 
adjacent  to  the  room  in  which  she  lodged 
during  nearly  eight  months,  at  the  last  of 
her  wasted,  unfortunate,  but  gentle  and 
noble  life.  [That  room  was  in  the  house 
of  Thomas  Brydges,  brother  and  deputy  of 
Sir  John  Brydges,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower, 
and  its  windows  command  an  unobstructed 
view  of  the  Tower  Green,  which  was  the 
place  of  the  block.]  It  could  serve  no  good 
purpose  to  relate  the  particulars  of  those 
visitations;  but  nobody  doubts  them  — 
while  he  is  in  the  Tower.  It  is  a  place  of 
mystery  and  horror,  notwithstanding  all 
that  the  practical  spirit  of  to-day  has  done 
to  make  it  trivial  and  to  cheapen  its  grim 
glories  by  association  with  the  common- 
place. 


RAMBLES   IN   LONDON.  43 


IV. 

RAMBLES    IN   LONDON. 

ALL  old  cities  get  rich  in  association,  as 
a  matter  of  course  and  whether  they 
will  or  no  ;  but  London,  by  reason  of  its 
great  extent  as  well  as  its  great  antiquity, 
is  richer  in  association  than  any  modern 
place  on  earth.  The  stranger  scarcely  takes 
a  step  without  encountering  a  new  object 
of  interest.  The  walk  along  the  Strand 
and  Fleet  Street,  in  particular,  is  continu- 
ally on  storied  ground.  Old  Temple  Bar 
still  stands  (July,  1877),  though  "tottering 
to  its  fall,"  and  marks  the  junction  of  the 
two  streets.  The  statues  of  Charles  the 
First  and  Charles  the  Second  on  its  west- 
ern front  would  be  remarkable  anywhere, 
as  characteristic  portraits.  You  stand  be- 
side that  arch  and  quite  forget  the  passing 
throng,  and  take  no  heed  of  the  tumult 
around,  as  you  think  of  Johnson  and  Bos- 
well  leaning  against  the  Bar  after  midnight 


44  RAMBLES  IN   LONDON. 

in  the  far-off  times  and  waking  the  echoes 
of  the  Temple  Garden  with  their  frolicsome 
laughter.  The  Bar  is  carefully  propped  now, 
and  they  will  nurse  its  age  as  long  as  they 
can ;  but  it  is  an  obstruction  to  travel  — 
and  it  must  disappear.  (It  was  removed 
in  the  summer  of  1878.)  They  will  prob- 
ably set  it  up,  newly  built,  in  another 
place.  They  have  left  untouched  a  little 
piece  of  the  original  scaffolding  built  around 
St.  Paul's  ;  and  that  fragment  of  decaying 
wood  may  still  be  seen,  high  upon  the  side 
of  the  cathedral.  The  Rainbow,  the  Mitre, 
the  Cheshire  Cheese,  Dolly's  Chop-House, 
the  Cock,  and  the  Round  Table  —  taverns 
or  public-houses  that  were  frequented  by 
the  old  wits  —  are  still  extant  (1877).  The 
Cheshire  Cheese  is  scarcely  changed  from 
what  it  was  when  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  and 
their  comrades  ate  beefsteak  pie  and  drank 
porter  there,  and  the  Doctor  "tossed  and 
gored  several  persons,"  as  it  was  his  cheer- 
ful custom  to  do.  The  benches  in  that 
room  are  as  uncomfortable  as  they  well 
could  be  ;  mere  ledges  of  well-worn  wood, 
on  which  the  visitor  sits  bolt  upright,  in 
difficult  perpendicular  ;  but  there  is,  proba- 
bly, nothing  on  earth  that  would  induce  the 
owner  to  alter  them  —  and  he  is  right.    The 


rambles  in  London  45 

conservative  principle  in  the  English  mind, 
if  it  has  saved  some  trash,  has  saved  more 
treasure.  At  the  foot  of  Buckingham  Street, 
in  the  Strand,  —  where  was  situated  an 
estate  of  George  Villiers,  first  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  assassinated  in  1628,  whose 
tomb  may  be  seen  in  the  chapel  of  Henry 
the  Seventh  in  Westminster  Abbey, —  still 
stands  the  slowly  crumbling  ruin  of  the  old 
Water  Gate,  so  often  mentioned  as  the  place 
where  accused  traitors  were  embarked  for 
the  Tower.  The  river,  in  former  times, 
flowed  up  to  that  gate,  but  the  land  along 
the  margin  of  the  Thames  has  been  re- 
deemed, and  the  magnificent  Victoria  and 
Albert  embankments  now  border  the  river 
for  a  long  distance  on  both  sides.  The  Water 
Gate,  in  fact,  stands  in  a  little  park  on  the 
north  bank  of  the  Thames.  Not  far  away 
is  the  Adelphi  Terrace,  where  Garrick  lived 
and  died  (Obiit  January  20th,  1779,  aged  63), 
and  where,  on  October  1st,  1822,  his  widow 
expired,  aged  98.  The  house  of  Garrick  is 
let  in  "chambers"  now.  If  you  walk  up 
the  Strand  towards  Charing  Cross  you  pres- 
ently  come  near  to  the  Church  of  St.  Martin- 
in-the- Fields,  which  is  one  of  the  works  of 
James  Gibbs,  a  pupil  of  Sir  Christopher 
Wren,  and  entirely  worthy  of  the  master's 


46  RAMBLES  IN   LONDON. 

hand.  The  fogs  have  stained  that  building 
with  such  a  deft  touch  as  shows  the  caprice 
of  nature  to  be  often  better  than  the  best  de- 
sign of  art.  Nell  Gwyn's  name  is  connected 
with  St.  Martin.  Her  funeral  occurred  in 
that  church,  and  was  pompous,  and  no 
less  a  person  than  Tenison  (afterwards 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury)  preached  the  fu- 
neral sermon.1  That  prelate's  dust  reposes 
in  Lambeth  church,  which  can  be  seen, 
across  the  river,  from  this  part  of  West- 
minster. If  you  walk  down  the  Strand, 
through  Temple  Bar,  you  presently  reach 
the  Temple ;  and  there  is  no  place  in 
London  where  the  past  and  the  present  are 
so  strangely  confronted  as  they  are  here. 
The  venerable  church,  so  quaint  with  its 
cone-pointed  turrets,  was  sleeping  in  the 
sunshine  when  first  I  saw  it ;  sparrows 
were  twittering  around  its  spires  and  glid- 
ing in  and  out  of  the  crevices  in  its  ancient 
walls  ;  while  from  within  a  strain  of  organ 
music,  low  and  sweet,  trembled  forth,  till 
the  air  became  a  benediction  and  every 
common  thought  and  feeling  was  chastened 
away  from  mind  and  heart.     The  grave  of 

1  This  was  made  the  occasion  of  a  complaint 
against  him,  to  Queen  Mary,  who  gently  expressed 
her  unshaken  confidence  in  his  goodness  and  truth. 


RAMBLES   IN   LONDON.  47 

Goldsmith  is  close  to  the  pathway  that  skirts 
this  church,  on  a  terrace  raised  above  the 
foundation  of  the  building  and  above  the 
little  graveyard  of  the  Templars  that  nestles 
at  its  base.  As  I  stood  beside  the  resting- 
place  of  that  sweet  poet  it  was  impossible 
not  to  feel  both  grieved  and  glad :  grieved 
at  the  thought  of  all  he  suffered,  and  of  all 
that  the  poetic  nature  must  always  suffer 
before  it  will  utter  its  immortal  music  for 
mankind  :  glad  that  his  gentle  spirit  found 
rest  at  last,  and  that  time  has  given  him 
the  crown  he  would  most  have  prized  —  the 
affection  of  true  hearts.  A  gray  stone,  cof- 
fin-shaped and  marked  with  a  cross,  —  after 
the  fashion  of  the  contiguous  tombs  of  the 
Templars,  —  is  imposed  upon  his  grave. 
One  surface  bears  the  inscription,  "Here 
lies  Oliver  Goldsmith"  ;  the  other  presents 
the  dates  of  his  birth  and  death.  (Born 
Nov.  10,  1728  ;  died  April  4,  1774.)  I  tried 
to  call  up  the  scene  of  his  burial,  when, 
around  the  open  grave,  on  that  tearful 
April  evening,  Johnson,  Burke,  Reynolds, 
Beauclerk,  Boswell,  Davies,  Kelly,  Palmer, 
and  the  rest  of  that  broken  circle,  may  have 
gathered  to  witness 

"  The  duties  by  the  lawn-rohed  prelate  paid, 
And  the  last  rites  that  dust  to  dust  conveyed." 


48  RAMBLES  IN  LONDON. 

No  place  could  be  less  romantic  than 
Southwark  is  now ;  but  there  are  few  places 
in  England  that  possess  a  greater  charm 
for  the  literary  pilgrim.  Shakespeare  lived 
there,  and  it  was  there  that  he  wrote  for  a 
theatre  and  made  a  fortune.  Old  London 
Bridge  spanned  the  Thames  at  this  point, 
in  those  days,  and  was  the  only  road  to 
the  Surrey  side  of  the  river.  The  theatre 
stood  near  the  end  of  the  bridge  and  was 
thus  easy  of  access  to  the  wits  and  beaux 
of  London.  No  trace  of  it  now  remains  ; 
but  a  public-house  called  the  Globe,  which 
was  its  name,  is  standing  near,  and  the 
old  church  of  St.  Saviour  —  into  which 
Shakespeare  must  often  have  entered  — 
still  braves  the  storm  and  still  resists 
the  encroachments  of  time  and  change. 
In  Shakespeare's  day  there  were  houses 
on  each  side  of  London  Bridge ;  and 
as  he  walked  on  the  bank  of  the  Thames 
he  could  look  across  to  the  Tower,  and 
to  Baynard  Castle,  which  had  been  the 
residence  of  Richard,  Duke  of  Gloster,  and 
could  see,  uplifted  high  in  air,  the  spire  of 
old  St.  Paul's.  The  borough  of  Southwark 
was  then  but  thinly  peopled.  Many  of  its 
houses,  as  may  be  seen  in  an  old  picture 
of  the  city,  were  surrounded  by  fields  or 


RAMBLES   IN    LONDON.  49 

gardens ;  and  life  to  its  inhabitants  must 
have  been  comparatively  rural.  Now  it  is 
packed  with  buildings,  gridironed  with  rail- 
ways, crowded  with  people,  and  to  the  last 
degree  resonant  and  feverish  with  action 
and  effort.  Life  swarms,  traffic  bustles,  and 
travel  thunders  all  round  the  cradle  of  the 
British  drama.  The  old  church  of  St.  Sav- 
iour alone  preserves  the  sacred  memory  of 
the  past.  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  that  shrine, 
in  the  company  of  Arthur  Sketchley,  one  of 
the  kindliest  humourists  in  England.  (Obiit 
November  13,  1882.)  We  embarked  at 
Westminster  Bridge  and  landed  close  by 
the  church  in  Southwark,  and  we  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  get  permission  to  enter  it 
without  a  guide.  The  oldest  part  of  it  is  the 
Lady  chapel  —  which,  in  English  cathedrals, 
is  almost  invariably  placed  behind  the  choir. 
Through  this  we  strolled,  alone  and  in 
silence.  Every  footstep  there  falls  upon  a 
grave.  The  pavement  is  one  mass  of  grave- 
stones ;  and  through  the  tall,  stained  win- 
dows of  the  chapel  a  solemn  light  pours  in 
upon  the  sculptured  names  of  men  and 
women  who  have  long  been  dust.  In  one 
corner  is  an  ancient  stone  coffin  —  a  relic 
of  the  Roman  days  of  Britain.  This  is  the 
room  in  which   Stephen  Gardiner,  Bishop 

D 


50  RAMBLES   IN  LONDON. 

of  Winchester,  in  the  days  of  cruel  Queen 
Mary,    held    his    ecclesiastical    court    and 
doomed  many  a  dissentient  devotee  to  the 
rack  and  the  fagot.     Here  was  condemned 
John   Rogers,  —  afterwards    burnt    at  the 
stake    in    Smithfield.      Queen    Mary    and 
Queen   Elizabeth   may  often  have  entered 
this  chapel.     But  it  is  in  the  choir  that  the 
pilgrim  pauses  with  most  of  reverence  ;  for 
there,  not  far  from  the  altar,  he  stands  at 
the  graves  of  Edmund  Shakespeare,  John 
Fletcher,  and  Philip  Massinger.     They  ap- 
parently rest  almost  side  by  side,  and  only 
their  names  and  the  dates  of  their  death 
are   cut    in    the    tablets    that  mark  their 
sepulchres.      Edmund     Shakespeare,     the 
younger  brother  of  William,  was  an  actor 
in   his   company,  and  died  in   1607,  aged 
twenty-seven.     The  great  poet  must  have 
stood  at  that  grave,  and  suffered  and  wept 
there ;    and  somehow  the  lover  of  Shake- 
speare comes  very  near  to  the  heart  of  the 
master  when  he  stands  in  that  place.    Mas- 
singer  was  buried  there,  March  18,  1638, 
—  the  parish  register  recording  him  as  "a 
stranger."   Fletcher  —  of  the  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher    alliance  —  was    buried    there,    in 
1625 :  Beaumont's  grave  is  in  the  Abbey. 
The  dust  of   Henslowe  the  manager  also 


RAMBLES   IN    LONDON.  5 1 

rests  beneath  the  pavement  of  St.  Saviour's. 
Bishop  Gardiner  was  buried  there,  with 
pompous  ceremonial,  in  1555.  The  great 
prelate  Lancelot  Andrews,  commemorated 
by  Milton,  found  his  grave  there,  in  1626. 
The  royal  poet  King  James  the  First,  of 
Scotland,  was  married  there,  in  1423,  to 
Jane,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset  and 
niece  of  Cardinal  Beaufort.  In  the  south 
transept  of  the  church  is  the  tomb  of  John 
Gower,  the  old  poet  —  whose  effigy,  carved 
and  painted,  reclines  upon  it  and  is  not 
very  attractive.  A  formal,  severe  aspect 
he  must  have  had,  if  he  resembled  that 
image.  The  tomb  has  been  moved  from 
the  spot  where  it  first  stood  — a  proceeding 
made  necessary  by  a  fire  that  destroyed 
part  of  the  old  church.  It  is  said  that 
Gower  caused  the  tomb  to  be  erected  dur- 
ing his  lifetime,  so  that  it  might  be  in 
readiness  to  receive  his  bones.  The  bones 
are  lost,  but  the  memorial  remains  — sacred 
to  the  memory  of  the  father  of  English 
song.  This  tomb  was  restored  by  the  Duke 
of  Sutherland,  in  1832.  It  is  enclosed  by 
a  little  rail  made  of  iron  spears,  painted 
brown  and  gilded  at  their  points.  I  went 
into  the  new  part  of  the  church,  and,  quite 
alone,   knelt  in  one  of  the  pews  and  long 


52  RAMBLES   IN   LONDON. 

remained  there,  overcome  with  thoughts  of 
the  past  and  of  the  transient,  momentary 
nature  of  this  our  earthly  life  and  the 
shadows  that  we  pursue. 

One  object  of  merriment  attracts  a  pass- 
ing glance  in  Southwark  church.  There  is 
a  tomb  in  a  corner  of  it  that  commemorates 
Dr.  Lockyer,  a  maker  of  patent  physic,  in 
the  time  of  Charles  the  Second.  This 
elaborate  structure  presents  an  effigy  of 
the  doctor,  together  with  a  sounding  epi- 
taph which  declares  that 

"  His  virtues  and  his  pills  are  so  well  known 
That  envy  can't  confine  them  under  stone." 

Shakespeare  once  lived  in  Clink  Street, 
in  the  borough  of  Southwark.  Goldsmith 
practised  medicine  there.  Chaucer  came 
there,  with  his  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  and 
lodged  at  the  Tabard  inn.  It  must  have 
been  a  romantic  region  in  the  old  times. 
It  is  anything  but  romantic  now. 


A  VISIT   TO   WINDSOR.  53 


V. 

A   VISIT   TO   WINDSOR. 

IF  the  beauty  of  England  were  only  super- 
ficial it  would  produce  only  a  superficial 
effect.  It  would  cause  a  passing  pleasure 
and  would  be  forgotten.  It  certainly  would 
not  —  as  now  in  fact  it  does  —  inspire  a 
deep,  joyous,  serene  and  grateful  content- 
ment, and  linger  in  the  mind,  a  gracious 
and  beneficent  remembrance.  The  conquer- 
ing and  lasting  potency  of  it  resides  not 
alone  in  loveliness  of  expression  but  in  love- 
liness of  character.  Having  first  greatly 
blessed  the  British  Islands  with  the  natural 
advantages  of  position,  climate,  soil,  and 
products,  nature  has  wrought  their  de- 
velopment and  adornment  as  a  necessary 
consequence  of  the  spirit  of  their  inhabit- 
ants. The  picturesque  variety  and  pastoral 
repose  of  the  English  landscape  spring,  in 
a  considerable  measure,  from  the  imagina- 
tive taste  and  the  affectionate  gentleness  of 


54  A   VISIT   TO   WINDSOR. 

the  English  people.  The  state  of  the  coun- 
try, like  its  social  constitution,  flows  from 
principles  within,  which  are  constantly- 
suggested,  and  it  steadily  comforts  and 
nourishes  the  mind  with  a  sense  of  kindly 
feeling,  moral  rectitude,  solidity,  and  per- 
manence. Thus  in  the  peculiar  beauty  of 
England  the  ideal  is  made  the  actual  —  is 
expressed  in  things  more  than  in  words, 
and  in  things  by  which  words  are  tran- 
scended. Milton's  "L' Allegro,"  fine  as  it 
is,  is  not  so  fine  as  the  scenery  —  the  crys- 
tallised, embodied  poetry  —  out  of  which  it 
arose.  All  the  delicious  rural  verse  that 
has  been  written  in  England  is  only  the 
excess  and  superflux  of  her  own  poetic 
opulence :  it  has  rippled  from  the  hearts  of 
her  poets  just  as  the  fragrance  floats  away 
from  her  hawthorn  hedges.  At  every  step 
of  his  progress  the  pilgrim  through  English 
scenes  is  impressed  with  this  sovereign  ex- 
cellence of  the  accomplished  fact,  as  con- 
trasted with  any  words  that  can  be  said  in 
its  celebration. 

Among  representative  scenes  that  are 
eloquent  with  this  instructive  meaning,  — 
scenes  easily  and  pleasurably  accessible 
to  the  traveller  in  what  Dickens  expres- 
sively called  "the  green,  English  summer 


A  VISIT   TO   WINDSOR.  55 

weather," — is  the  region  of  Windsor.  The 
chief  features  of  it  have  often  been  de- 
scribed; the  charm  that  it  exercises  can 
only  be  suggested.  To  see  Windsor,  more- 
over, is  to  comprehend  as  at  a  glance  the 
old  feudal  system,  and  to  feel  in  a  pro- 
found and  special  way  the  pomp  of  English 
character  and  history.  More  than  this  :  it 
is  to  rise  to  the  ennobling  serenity  that 
always  accompanies  broad,  retrospective 
contemplation  of  the  current  of  human 
affairs.  In  this  quaint,  decorous  town  — 
nestled  at  the  base  of  that  mighty  and 
magnificent  castle  which  has  been  the  home 
of  princes  for  more  than  five  hundred  years 
—  the  imaginative  mind  wanders  over  vast 
tracts  of  the  past  and  beholds  as  in  a 
mirror  the  pageants  of  chivalry,  the  coro- 
nations of  kings,  the  strife  of  sects,  the  bat- 
tles of  armies,  the  schemes  of  statesmen, 
the  decay  of  transient  systems,  the  growth 
of  a  rational  civilisation,  and  the  everlast- 
ing march  of  thought.  Every  prospect  of 
the  region  Intensifies  this  sentiment  of  con- 
templative grandeur.  As  you  look  from 
the  castle  walls  your  gaze  takes  in  miles 
and  miles  of  blooming  country,  sprinkled 
over  with  little  hamlets,  wherein  the  utmost 
stateliness  of  learning  and  rank  is  grace- 


56  A  VISIT  TO   WINDSOR. 

fully  commingled  with  all  that  is  lovely  and 
soothing  in  rural  life.  Not  far  away  rise 
the  "  antique  towers  "  of  Eton  — 

"Where  grateful  science  still  adores 
Her  Henry's  holy  shade." 

It  was  in  Windsor  Castle  that  her  Henry 
was  born ;  and  there  he  often  held  his 
court ;  and  it  is  in  St.  George's  chapel  that 
his  ashes  repose.  In  the  dim  distance 
stands  the  church  of  Stoke- Pogis,  about 
which  Gray  used  to  wander, 

"  Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's 
shade." 

You  recognise  now  a  deeper  significance 
than  ever  before  in  the  "  solemn  stillness  " 
of  the  incomparable  Elegy.  The  luminous 
twilight  mood  of  that  immortal  poem  —  its 
pensive  reverie  and  solemn  passion  —  is  in- 
herent in  the  scene ;  and  you  feel  that  it 
was  there,  and  there  only,  that  the  genius 
of  its  exceptional  author  —  austerely  gentle 
and  severely  pure,  and  thus  in  perfect  har- 
mony with  its  surroundings  —  could  have 
been  moved  to  that  sublime  strain  of  in- 
spiration and  eloquence.  Near  at  hand,  in 
the  midst  of  your  reverie,  the  mellow  organ 
sounds  from   the    chapel    of    St.    George, 


A  VISIT   TO   WINDSOR.  57 

where,  under  "fretted  vault"  and  over 
"long-drawn  aisle,"  depend  the  ghostly, 
mouldering  banners  of  ancient  knights  — 
as  still  as  the  bones  of  the  dead- and- gone 
monarchs  that  crumble  in  the  crypt  below. 
In  this  church  are  many  of  the  old  kings 
and  nobles  of  England.  The  handsome  and 
gallant  Edward  the  Fourth  here  found  his 
grave ;  and  near  it  is  that  of  the  accom- 
plished Hastings  —  his  faithful  friend,  to 
the  last  and  after.  Here  lies  the  dust  of  the 
stalwart,  impetuous,  and  savage  Henry  the 
Eighth,  and  here,  at  midnight,  by  the  light 
of  torches,  they  laid  beneath  the  pavement 
the  mangled  body  of  Charles  the  First.  As 
you  stand  on  Windsor  ramparts,  pondering 
thus  upon  the  storied  past  and  the  evanes- 
cence of  "all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth 
e'er  gave,"  your  eyes  rest  dreamily  on  green 
fields  far  below,  through  which,  under  tall 
elms,  the  brimming  and  sparkling  river 
flows  on  without  a  sound,  and  in  which  a 
few  figures,  dwarfed  by  distance,  flit  here 
and  there,  in  seeming  aimless  idleness ; 
while,  warned  homeward  by  impending  sun- 
set, the  chattering  birds  circle  and  float 
around  the  lofty  towers  of  the  castle ;  and 
delicate  perfumes  of  seringa  and  jasmine  are 
wafted  up  from  dusky,  unknown  depths  at 


58  A   VISIT   TO    WINDSOR. 

the  base  of  its  ivied  steep.  At  such  an  hour 
I  stood  on  those  ramparts  and  saw  the  shy- 
villages  and  rich  meadows  of  fertile  Berk- 
shire, all  red  and  golden  with  sunset  light ; 
and  at  such  an  hour  I  stood  in  the  lonely 
cloisters  of  St.  George's  chapel,  and  heard 
the  distant  organ  sob,  and  saw  the  sunlight 
fade  up  the  gray  walls,  and  felt  and  knew 
the  sanctity  of  silence.  Age  and  death 
have  made  this  church  illustrious  ;  but  the 
spot  itself  has  its  own  innate  charm  of 
mystical  repose. 

"  No  use  of  lanterns ;  and  in  one  place  lay 
Feathers  and  dust  to-day  and  yesterday." 

The  drive  from  the  front  of  Windsor 
Castle  is  through  a  broad  and  stately  av- 
enue, three  miles  in  length,  straight  as  an 
arrow  and  level  as  a  standing  pool ;  and  this 
white  highway  through  the  green  and  fra- 
grant sod  is  sumptuously  embowered,  from 
end  to  end,  with  double  rows  of  magnifi- 
cent elms  and  oaks.  The  Windsor  avenue, 
like  the  splendid  chestnut  grove  at  Bushey 
Park,  long  famous  among  the  pageants  of 
rural  England,  has  often  been  described. 
It  is  after  leaving  this  that  the  rambler 
comes  upon  the  rarer  beauties  of  Windsor 
Park  and  Forest.     From  the  far  end  of  the 


A  VISIT  TO   WINDSOR.  59 

avenue  —  where,  in  a  superb  position,  the 
equestrian  statue  of  King  George  the  Third 
rises  on  its  massive  pedestal  of  natural  rock, 
—  the  road  winds  away,  through  shaded 
Jell  and  verdant  glade,  past  great  gnarled 
beeches  and  under  boughs  of  elm,  and  yew, 
and  oak,  till  its  silver  thread  is  lost  in  the 
distant  woods.  At  intervals  a  branching 
pathway  strays  off  to  some  secluded  lodge, 
half  hidden  in  foliage  —  the  property  of  the 
Crown,  and  the  rustic  residence  of  a  scion 
of  the  royal  race.  In  one  of  those  retreats 
dwelt  poor  old  George  the  Third,  in  the 
days  of  his  mental  darkness  ;  and  the  mem- 
ory of  the  agonising  king  seems  still  to  cast 
a  shadow  on  the  mysterious  and  melancholy 
house.  They  show  you,  under  glass,  in  one 
of  the  lodge  gardens,  an  enormous  grape- 
vine, owned  by  the  Queen  —  a  vine  which, 
from  its  single  stalwart  trunk,  spreads  its 
teeming  branches,  laterally,  more  than  a 
hundred  feet  in  each  direction.  So  come 
use  and  thrift,  hand  in  hand  with  romance  ! 
Many  an  aged  oak  is  passed,  in  your  prog- 
ress, round  which,  "at  still  midnight," 
Heme  the  Hunter  might  yet  take  his 
ghostly  prowl,  shaking  his  chain  "in  a 
most  hideous  and  dreadful  manner."  The 
wreck  of  the  veritable  Heme's  Oak,  it  is 


60  A  VISIT   TO    WINDSOR. 

said,  was  rooted  out,  together  with  other 
ancient  and  decayed  trees,  in  the  time  of 
George  the  Third,  and  in  somewhat  too 
literal  fulfilment  of  his  Majesty's  misin- 
terpreted command.  This  great  park  is 
fourteen  miles  in  circumference  and  con- 
tains nearly  four  thousand  acres,  and  many 
of  the  youngest  trees  that  adorn  it  are  more 
than  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  old.  Far 
in  its  heart  you  stroll  by  Virginia  "Water  — 
an  artificial  lake,  but  faultless  in  its  gentle 
beauty  —  and  perceive  it  so  deep  and  so 
breezy  that  a  full- rigged  ship- of- war,  with 
armament,  can  navigate  its  wind-swept, 
curling  billows.  This  lake  was  made  by 
the  sanguinary  Duke  of  Cumberland  who 
led  the  English  forces  at  Culloden.  In  the 
dim  groves  that  fringe  its  margin  are  many 
nests  wherein  pheasants  are  bred,  to  fall  by 
the  royal  shot  and  to  supply  the  royal 
table :  these  you  may  contemplate  but  not 
approach.  At  a  point  in  your  walk,  seques- 
tered and  lonely,  they  have  set  up  and  skil- 
fully disposed  the  fragments  of  a  genuine 
ruined  temple,  brought  from  the  remote 
East— relic  perchance  of  "Tadmor's  mar- 
ble waste,"  and  certainly  a  most  solemn 
memorial  of  the  morning  twilight  of  time. 
Broken  arch,  storm- stained  pillar,  and  shat- 


A  VISIT   TO   WINDSOR.  6 1 

tered  column  are  here  shrouded  with  moss 
and  ivy  ;  and  should  you  chance  to  see  them 
as  the  evening  shadows  deepen  and  the 
evening  wind  sighs  mournfully  in  the  grass 
your  fancy  will  not  fail  to  drink  in  the  per- 
fect illusion  that  one  of  the  stateliest  struc- 
tures of  antiquity  has  slowly  crumbled 
where  now  its  fragments  remain. 

"Quaint"  is  a  descriptive  epithet  that 
has  been  much  abused,  but  it  may,  with 
absolute  propriety,  be  applied  to  Windsor. 
The  devious  little  streets  there  visible,  and 
the  carved  and  timber- crossed  buildings, 
often  of  great  age,  are  uncommonly  rich  in 
the  expressiveness  of  imaginative  character. 
The  emotions  and  the  fancy,  equally  with 
the  sense  of  necessity  and  the  instinct  of 
use,  have  exercised  their  influence  and 
uttered  their  spirit  in  the  shaping  and 
adornment  of  the  town.  While  it  con- 
stantly feeds  the  eye  —  with  that  pleasing 
irregularity  of  lines  and  forms  which  is  so 
delicious  and  refreshing  —  it  quite  as  con* 
stantly  nurtures  the  sense  of  romance  that 
ought  to  play  so  large  a  part  in  our 
lives,  redeeming  us  from  the  tyranny  of 
the  commonplace  and  intensifying  all  the 
high  feelings  and  noble  aspirations  that  are 
possible  to  human  nature.     England  con- 


62  A  VISIT   TO   WINDSOR. 

tains  many  places  like  Windsor  ;  some  that 
blend  in  even  richer  amplitude  the  ele- 
ments of  quaintness,  loveliness,  and  magnifi- 
cence. The  meaning  of  them  all  is  the  same  : 
that  romance,  beauty,  and  gentleness  are 
for  ever  vital ;  that  their  forces  are  within 
our  souls,  and  ready  and  eager  to  find  their 
way  into  our  thoughts,  actions,  and  cir- 
cumstances, and  to  brighten  for  every  one 
of  us  the  face  of  every  day  ;  that  they  ought 
neither  to  be  relegated  to  the  distant  and 
the  past  nor  kept  for  our  books  and  day- 
dreams alone  ;  but  —  in  a  calmer  and  higher 
mood  than  is  usual  in  this  age  of  universal 
mediocrity,  critical  scepticism,  and  miscel- 
laneous tumult  —  should  be  permitted  to 
flow  forth  into  our  architecture,  adornments, 
and  customs,  to  hallow  and  preserve  our  an- 
tiquities, to  soften  our  manners,  to  give  us 
tranquillity,  patience,  and  tolerance,  to  make 
our  country  loveable  for  our  own  hearts, 
and  so  to  enable  us  to  bequeath  it,  sure  of 
love  and  reverence,  to  succeeding  ages. 


THE  PALACE   OF   WESTMINSTER.         63 


VI. 

THE   PALACE    OF    WESTMINSTER. 

THE  American  who,  having  been  a  care- 
ful and  interested  reader  of  English 
history,  visits  London  for  the  first  time,  half 
expects  to  find  the  ancient  city  in  a  state 
of  mild  decay ;  and  consequently  he  is  a 
little  startled  at  first,  upon  realising  that 
the  present  is  quite  as  vital  as  ever  the  past 
was,  and  that  London  antiquity  is,  in  fact, 
swathed  in  the  robes  of  everyday  action 
and  very  much  alive.  When,  for  example, 
you  enter  Westminster  Hall — "the  great 
hall  of  William  Rufus  "  — you  are  beneath 
one  of  the  most  glorious  canopies  in  the 
world  —  one  that  was  built  by  Richard  the 
Second,  whose  grave,  chosen  by  himself,  is 
in  the  Abbey,  just  across  the  street  from 
where  you  stand.  But  this  old  hall  is  now 
only  a  vestibule  to  the  Palace  of  West- 
minster. The  Lords  and  the  Commons  of 
England,  on  their  way  to  the  Houses  of 


64         THE  PALACE   OF  WESTMINSTER. 

Parliament,  pass  every  day  over  the  spot 
on  which  Charles  the  First  was  tried  and 
condemned,  and  on  which  occurred  the 
trial  of  Warren  Hastings.  It  is  a  mere 
thoroughfare  —  glorious  though  it  be,  alike 
in  structure  and  historic  renown.  The  Pal- 
ace Yard,  near  by,  was  the  scene  of  the 
execution  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  In  Bish- 
opsgate  Street  stands  Crosby  House ;  the 
same  to  which,  in  Shakespeare's  tragedy, 
the  Duke  of  Gloster  requests  the  retirement 
of  Lady  Anne.  It  is  a  restaurant  now, 
and  you  may  dine  in  the  veritable  throne- 
room  of  Richard  the  Third.  The  house  of 
Cardinal  Wolsey  in  Fleet  Street  is  now  a 
shop.  Milton  once  lived  in  Golden  Lane, 
and  Golden  Lane  was  a  sweet  and  quiet 
spot.  It  is  a  dingy  and  dismal  street  now, 
and  the  visitor  is  glad  to  get  out  of  it.  To- 
day makes  use  of  yesterday,  all  the  world 
over.  It  is  not  in  London,  certainly,  that 
you  find  anything  —  except  old  churches 
—  mouldering  in  silence,  solitude,  and  neg- 
lect. 

Those  who  see  every  day  during  the  Par- 
liamentary session  the  mace  that  is  borne 
through  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, although  they  are  obliged,  on  every 
occasion,  to  uncover  as  it  passes,  do  not, 


THE   PALACE   OF   WESTMINSTER.         65 

probably,  view  that  symbol  with  much  in- 
terest. Yet  it  is  the  same  mace  that  Oliver 
Cromwell  insulted,1  when  he  dissolved  the 
Parliament  and  cried  out,  "Take  away 
that  bauble  ! "  I  saw  it  one  day,  on  its 
passage  to  the  table  of  the  Commons,  and 
was  glad  to  remove  the  hat  of  respect  to 
what  it  signifies  —  the  power  and  majesty 
of  the  free  people  of  England.  The  Speaker 
of  the  House  was  walking  behind  it,  very 
grand  in  his  wig  and  gown,  and  the  mem- 
bers trooped  in  at  his  heels  to  secure  their 
places  by  being  present  at  the  opening 
prayer.  A  little  later  I  was  provided  with 
a  seat,  in  a  dim  corner,  in  that  august 
assemblage  of  British  senators,  and  could 
observe  at  ease  their  management  of  the 
public  business.  The  Speaker  was  on  his 
throne ;  the  mace  was  on  its  table ;  the 
hats  of  the  Commons  were  on  their  heads  ; 
and  over  this  singular,  animated,  impressive 
scene  the  waning  light  of  a  summer  after- 
noon poured  softly  down,  through  the  high, 
stained,  and  pictured  windows  of  one  of  the 

1  An  error.  The  House  of  Commons  has  had 
three  maces.  The  first  one  disappeared  after  the 
judicial  slaughter  of  Charles  the  First.  The  Crom- 
well mace  was  carried  to  the  island  of  Jamaica,  and 
is  there  preserved  in  a  museum  at  Kingston.  The 
third  is  the  one  now  in  use. 


66         THE  PALACE  OP   WESTMINSTER. 

most  symmetrical  halls  in  the  world.  It 
did  not  happen  to  be  a  day  of  excitement. 
The  Irish  members  had  not  then  begun  to 
impede  the  transaction  of  business,  for  the 
sake  of  drawing  attention  to  the  everlasting 
wrongs  of  Ireland.  Yet  it  was  a  lively  day. 
Curiosity  on  the  part  of  the  Opposition  and 
a  respectful  incertitude  on  the  part  of 
Her  Majesty's  ministers  were  the  prevail- 
ing conditions.  I  had  never  before  heard 
so  many  questions  asked  —  outside  of  the 
French  grammar  —  and  asked  to  so  little 
purpose.  Everybody  wanted  to  know,  and 
nobody  wanted  to  tell.  Each  inquirer  took 
off  his  hat  when  he  rose  to  ask,  and  put  it 
on  again  when  he  sat  down  to  be  answered. 
Each  governmental  sphinx  bared  his  brow 
when  he  emerged  to  divulge,  and  covered  it 
again  when  he  subsided  without  divulging. 
The  superficial  respect  of  these  interlocutors 
for  each  other  steadily  remained,  however, 
of  the  most  deferential  and  considerate  de- 
scription ;  so  that  —  without  discourtesy  — 
it  was  impossible  not  to  think  of  Byron's 
"mildest  mannered  man  that  ever  scuttled 
ship  or  cut  a  throat."  Underneath  this 
velvety,  purring,  conventional  manner  the 
observer  could  readily  discern  the  fires  of 
passion,  prejudice,  and  strong  antagonism. 


the  palace  of  Westminster.       67 

They  make  no  parade  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. They  attend  to  their  business.  And 
upon  every  topic  that  is  brought  before  their 
notice  they  have  definite  ideas,  strong  con- 
victions, and  settled  purposes.  The  topic  of 
Army  Estimates  upon  this  day  seemed  espe- 
cially to  arouse  their  ardour.  Discussion 
of  this  was  continually  diversified  by  cries 
of  "Oh! "  and  of  "Hear!  "  and  of  "Order ! " 
and  sometimes  those  cries  smacked  more  of 
derision  than  of  compliment.  Many  per- 
sons spoke,  but  no  person  spoke  well.  An 
off-hand,  matter-of-fact,  shambling  method 
of  speech  would  seem  to  be  the  fashion  in 
the  British  House  of  Commons.  I  remem- 
bered the  anecdote  that  De  Quincey  tells, 
about  Sheridan  and  the  young  member  who 
quoted  Greek.  It  was  easy  to  perceive  how 
completely  out  of  place  the  sophomore  ora- 
tor would  be,  in  that  assemblage.  Britons 
like  better  to  make  speeches  than  to  hear 
them,  and  they  will  never  be  slaves  to  bad 
oratory.  The  moment  a  windy  gentleman 
got  the  floor,  and  began  to  read  a  manuscript 
respecting  the  Indian  Government,  as  many 
as  forty  Commons  arose  and  noisily  walked 
out  of  the  House.  Your  pilgrim  likewise 
hailed  the  moment  of  his  deliverance  and 
was  glad  to  escape  to  the  open  air. 


68         THE  PALACE   OF   WESTMINSTER. 

Books  have  been  written  to  describe  the 
Palace  of  Westminster  ;  but  it  is  observable 
that  this  structure,  however  much  its  mag- 
nificence deserves  commemorative  applause, 
is  deficient,  as  yet,  in  the  charm  of  associa- 
tion. The  old  Palace  of  St.  James,  with  its 
low,  dusky  walls,  its  round  turrets,  and  its 
fretted  battlements,  is  more  impressive,  be- 
cause history  has  freighted  it  with  meaning 
and  time  has  made  it  beautiful.  But  the 
Palace  of  Westminster  is  a  splendid  struc- 
ture. It  covers  eight  acres  of  ground,  on 
the  bank  of  the  Thames  ;  it  contains  eleven 
quadrangles  and  five  hundred  rooms  ;  and 
when  its  niches  for  statuary  have  been  filled 
it  will  contain  two  hundred  and  twenty-six 
statues.  The  monuments  in  St.  Stephen's 
Hall  —  into  which  you  pass  from  Westmin- 
ster Hall,  which  has  been  incorporated  into 
the  Palace  and  is  its  only  ancient  and  there- 
fore its  most  interesting  feature  —  indicate, 
very  eloquently,  what  a  superb  art  gallery 
this  will  one  day  become.  The  statues  are 
the  images  of  Selden,  Hampden,  Falkland, 
Clarendon,  Somers,  Walpole,  Chatham, 
Mansfield,  Burke,  Fox,  Pitt,  and  Grattan. 
Those  of  Mansfield  and  Grattan  present, 
perhaps,  the  most  of  character  and  power, 
making  you  feel  that  they  are  indubitably 


THE  PALACE   OF   WESTMINSTER.         69 

accurate  portraits,  and  winning  you  by  the 
charm  of  personality.  There  are  statues, 
also,  in  Westminster  Hall,  commemorative 
of  the  Georges,  William  and  Mary,  and 
Anne  ;  but  it  is  not  of  these  you  think, 
nor  of  any  local  and  everyday  object,  when 
you  stand  beneath  the  wonderful  roof  of 
Richard  the  Second.  Nearly  eight  hundred 
years  "their  cloudy  wings  expand"  above 
that  fabric,  and  copiously  shed  upon  it  the 
fragrance  of  old  renown.  Richard  the  Sec- 
ond was  deposed  there :  Cromwell  was  there 
installed  Lord  Protector  of  England  :  John 
Fisher,  Sir  Thomas  More,  and  Strafford 
were  there  condemned:  and  it  was  there 
that  the  possible,  if  not  usual,  devotion  of 
woman's  heart  was  so  touchingly  displayed 
by  her 

"  Whose  faith  drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God." 

No  one  can  realise,  without  personal  ex- 
perience, the  number  and  variety  of  pleas- 
ures accessible  to  the  resident  of  London. 
These  may  not  be  piquant  to  him  who  has 
them  always  within  his  reach.  I  met  with 
several  residents  of  the  British  capital  who 
had  always  intended  to  visit  the  Tower  but 
had  never  done  so.     But  to  the  stranger 


70         THE   PALACE   OF   WESTMINSTER. 

they  possess  a  constant  and  keen  fascina- 
tion.     The  Derby  this    year   [1877]   was 
thought  to  be  comparatively  a  tame  race  ; 
but  I  know  of  one  spectator  who  saw  it 
from  the  top  of  the  grand  stand  and  who 
thought  that  the   scene  it  presented  was 
wonderfully  brilliant.     The  sky  had  been 
overcast  with  dull  clouds  till  the  moment 
when  the  race  was  won  ;  but  just  as  Archer, 
rising  in  his  saddle,  lifted  his  horse  forward 
and  gained  the  goal  alone,  the  sun  burst 
forth  and  shed  upon  the  downs  a  sheen  of 
gold,  and  lit  up  all  the  distant  hills,  and  all 
the  far-stretching  roads   that  wind  away 
from  the  region  of  Epsom  like  threads  of 
silver  through  the  green.     Carrier-pigeons 
were  instantly  launched  off  to  London,  with 
the  news  of  the  victory  of  Silvio.     There 
was  one  winner  on  the  grand  stand  who 
had  laid  bets  on  Silvio,  for  no  other  reason 
than  because  that  horse  bore  the  prettiest 
name  in  the  list.     The  Derby,  like  Christ- 
mas, comes  but  once  a  year ;  but  other  al- 
lurements are  almost  perennial.  Greenwich, 
for  instance,  with  its  white-bait  dinner,  In- 
vites the  epicure  during  the  best  part  of  the 
London  season.     A  favourite  tavern  is  the 
Trafalgar  —  in  which  each  room  is  named 
after  some  magnate  of  the  old  British  navy ; 


THE  PALACE   OF   WESTMINSTER.  7 1 

and  Nelson,  Hardy,  and  Rodney  are  house- 
hold words.  Another  cheery  place  of  resort 
is  The  Ship.  The  Hospitals  are  at  Green- 
wich that  Dr.  Johnson  thought  to  be  too 
fine  for  a  charity  ;  and  back  of  these  — 
which  are  ordinary  enough  now,  in  com- 
parison with  modern  structures  erected  for 
a  kindred  purpose  —  stands  the  famous 
Observatory  that  keeps  time  for  Europe. 
This  place  is  hallowed  also  by  the  grave 
of  Clive  and  by  that  of  Wolfe  —  to  the 
latter  of  whom,  however,  there  is  a  monu- 
ment in  Westminster  Abbey.  Greenwich 
makes  one  think  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who 
was  born  there,  who  often  held  her  court 
there,  and  who  often  sailed  thence,  in  her 
barge,  up  the  river  to  Richmond — her  fav- 
ourite retreat  and  the  scene  of  her  last  days 
and  her  pathetic  death.  Few  spots  can 
compare  with  Richmond,  in  brilliancy  of 
landscape.  This  place  — the  Shene  of  old 
times  —  was  long  a  royal  residence.  The 
woods  and  meadows  that  you  see  from  the 
terrace  of  the  Star  and  Garter  tavern  — 
spread  upon  a  rolling  plain  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach  —  sparkle  like  emeralds ;  and 
the  Thames,  dotted  with  little  toy-like  boats, 
shines  with  all  the  deep  lustre  of  the  black* 
est  onyx.     Richmond,  for  those  who  honour 


72         THE  PALACE   OF    WESTMINSTER. 

genius  and  who  love  to  walk  hi  the  foot- 
steps of  renown,  is  full  of  interest.  Dean 
Swift  once  had  a  house  there,  the  site  of 
which  is  still  indicated-  Pope's  rural  home 
was  in  the  adjacent  village  of  Twickenham, 
—  where  it  may  still  be  seen.  The  poet 
Thomson  long  resided  at  Richmond,  in  a 
house  now  used  as  an  hospital,  and  there  he 
died.  Edmund  Kean  and  the  once  famous 
Mrs.  Yates  rest  beneath  Richmond  church, 
and  there  also  are  the  ashes  of  Thomson. 
As  I  drove  through  the  sweetly  sylvan  Park 
of  Richmond,  in  the  late  afternoon  of  a 
breezy  summer  day,  and  heard  the  whisper- 
ing of  the  great  elms,  and  saw  the  gentle, 
trustful  deer  couched  at  ease  in  the  golden 
glades,  I  heard  all  the  while,  in  the  still 
chambers  of  thought,  the  tender  lament  of 
Collins  —  which  is  now  a  prophecy  fulfilled : 

"  Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore, 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest; 
And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest." 


WARWICK  AND   KENILWORTH.  J3 


VII. 

WARWICK  AND    KENILWORTH. 

ALL  the  way  from  London  to  Warwick  it 
rained  ;  not  heavily,  but  with  a  gentle 
fall.  The  gray  clouds  hung  low  over  the 
landscape  and  softly  darkened  it ;  so  that 
meadows  of  scarlet  and  emerald,  the  shining 
foliage  of  elms,  gray  turret,  nestled  cottage 
and  limpid  river  were  as  mysterious  and 
evanescent  as  pictures  seen  in  dreams.  At 
Warwick  the  rain  had  fallen  and  ceased,  and 
the  walk  from  the  station  to  the  inn  was  on 
a  road  —  or  on  a  footpath  by  the  roadside  — 
still  hard  and  damp  with  the  water  it  had 
absorbed.  A  fresh  wind  blew  from  the 
fields,  sweet  with  the  rain  and  fragrant  with 
the  odour  of  leaves  and  flowers.  The  streets 
of  the  ancient  town  —  entered  through  an 
old  Norman  arch  —  were  deserted  and  si- 
lent. It  was  Sunday  when  I  first  came  to 
the  country  of  Shakespeare  ;  and  over  all 
the  region  there  brooded  a  sacred  stillness 
peculiar  to  the  time  and  harmonious  beyond 


74  WARWICK    AND    KENILWORTH. 

utterance  with  the  sanctity  of  the  place.  As 
I  strive,  after  many  days,  to  call  back  and 
to  fix  in  words  the  impressions  of  that  sub- 
lime experience,  the  same  awe  falls  upon 
me  now  that  fell  upon  me  then.  Nothing 
else  upon  earth  —  no  natural  scene,  no  relic 
of  the  past,  no  pageantry  of  the  present  — 
can  vie  with  the  shrine  of  Shakespeare,  in 
power  to  impress,  to  humble,  and  to  exalt 
the  devout  spirit  that  has  been  nurtured  at 
the  fountain  of  his  transcendent  genius. 

A  fortunate  way  to  approach  Stratford- 
on-Avon  is  by  Warwick  and  Kenilworth. 
Those  places  are  not  on  a  direct  line  of 
travel ;  but  the  scenes  and  associations 
that  they  successively  present  are  such 
as  assume  a  symmetrical  order,  increase  in 
interest,  and  grow  to  a  delightful  culmina- 
tion. Objects  that  Shakespeare  himself 
must  have  seen  are  still  visible  there ;  and 
little  by  little,  in  contact  with  these,  the 
pilgrim  through  this  haunted  region  is  men- 
tally saturated  with  that  atmosphere  of  se- 
renity and  romance  in  which  the  youth  of 
Shakespeare  was  passed,  and  by  which  his 
works  and  his  memory  are  embalmed.  No 
one  should  come  abruptly  upon  the  poet's 
home.  The  mind  needs  to  be  prepared  for 
the  impression  that  awaits  it ;  and  in  this 


WARWICK   AND    KENLLWOKTH.  75 

gradual  approach  it  finds  preparation,  both 
suitable  and  delicious.     The  luxuriance  of 
the  country,  its  fertile  fields,  its  brilliant 
foliage,  its  myriads  of  wild-flowers,  its  pomp 
of  colour  and  of  physical  vigour  and  bloom, 
do  not  fail  to   announce,  to   every  mind, 
howsoever  heedless,  that  this  is  a  fit  place 
for  the  birth  and  nurture  of  a  great  man. 
But  this  is  not  all.     As  you  stroll  in  the 
quaint  streets  of  Warwick,  as  you  drive  to 
Kenilworth,   as  you  muse   in  that  poetic 
ruin,  as  you  pause  in  the  old  graveyard  in 
the  valley  below,  as  you  meditate  over  the 
crumbling  fragments  of  the  ancient  abbey, 
at  every  step  of  the  way  you  are  haunted 
by  a  vague  sense  of  an  impending  grandeur  ; 
you  are  aware  of  a  presence  that  fills  and 
sanctifies  the  scene.     The  emotion  that  is 
thus  inspired  is  very  glorious  ;  never  to  be 
elsewhere  felt ;  and  never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  cyclopaedias  and  the  guide-books 
dilate,  with  much  particularity  and  char- 
acteristic eloquence,  upon  Warwick  Castle 
and  other  great  features  of  Warwickshire, 
but  the  attribute  that  all  such  records 
omit  is  the  atmosphere  ;  and  this,  perhaps, 
is  rather  to  be  indicated  than  described. 
The  prevailing  quality  of  it  is  a  certain  high 
and   sweet  solemnity  —  a  feeling  kindred 


76  WARWICK    AND    KENILWORTH. 

with  the  placid,  happy  melancholy  that 
steals  over  the  mind,  when,  on  a  sombre 
afternoon  in  autumn,  you  stand  in  the 
churchyard,  and  listen,  amid  rustling 
branches  and  sighing  grass,  to  the  low 
music  of  distant  organ  and  chanting  choir. 
Peace,  haunted  by  romance,  dwells  here  in 
reverie.  The  great  tower  of  Warwick, 
based  in  silver  Avon  and  pictured  in  its 
slumbering  waters,  seems  musing  upon  the 
centuries  over  which  it  has  watched,  and 
full  of  unspeakable  knowledge  and  thought. 
The  dark  and  massive  gateways  of  the  town 
and  the  timber-crossed  fronts  of  its  antique 
houses  live  on  in  the  same  strange  dream, 
and  perfect  repose  ;  and  all  along  the  drive 
to  Kenilworth  are  equal  images  of  rest  —  of 
a  rest  in  which  there  is  nothing  supine  or 
sluggish,  no  element  of  death  or  decay,  but 
in  which  passion,  imagination,  beauty,  and 
sorrow,  seized  at  their  topmost  poise,  seem 
crystallised  in  eternal  calm.  What  opu- 
lence of  splendid  life  is  vital  for  ever  in 
Kenilworth' s  crumbling  ruin  there  are  no 
words  to  say.  What  pomp  of  royal  ban- 
ners !  what  dignity  of  radiant  cavaliers ! 
what  loveliness  of  stately  and  exquisite 
ladies  !  what  magnificence  of  banquets  ! 
what  wealth  of  pageantry  !  what  lustre  of 


WARWICK    AND    KENEL WORTH.  77 

illumination !     The  same  festal  music  that 
the  old  poet  Gascoigne  heard  there,  three 
hundred  years  ago,  is  still  sounding  on,  to- 
day.    The  proud  and  cruel  Leicester  still 
walks  in  his  vaulted  hall.     The  imperious 
face  of  the  Virgin   Queen   still  from  her 
dais  looks  down  on  plumed  courtiers  and 
jewelled  dames  ;    and  still  the  moonlight, 
streaming  through  the  turret- window,  falls 
on  the  white  bosom  and  the  great,  startled, 
black  eyes  of  Amy  Robsart,   waiting  for 
her  lover.     The  gaze  of  the  pilgrim,  indeed, 
rests  only  upon  old,   gray,  broken  walls, 
overgrown  with  green  moss  and  ivy,  and 
pierced    by    irregular    casements    through 
which  the  sun  shines,  and  the  winds  blow, 
and  the  rains   drive,    and    the    birds   fly, 
amid  utter  desolation.      But   silence    and 
ruin   are  here  alike   eloquent  and   awful ; 
and,  much  as  the  place  impresses  you  by 
what  remains,  it  impresses  you  far  more 
by  what  has   vanished.     Ambition,  love, 
pleasure,   power,    misery,    tragedy  —  these 
are  gone  ;  and  being  gone  they  are  immor- 
tal.    I  plucked,  in   the   garden   of  Kenil- 
worth,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  red  roses 
that  ever  grew  ;  and  as  I  pressed  it  to  my 
lips   I  seemed  to  touch  the   lips   of  that 
superb,  bewildering  beauty  who  outweighed 


78  WARWICK    AND    KENILWORTH. 

England's  crown  (at  least  in  story),  and 
whose  spirit  is  the  everlasting  genius  of  the 
place. 

There  is  a  row  of  cottages  opposite  to 
the  ruins  of  the  castle,  in  which  content- 
ment seems  to  have  made  her  home.  The 
ivy  embowers  them.  The  roses  cluster 
around  their  little  windows.  The  green 
sward  slopes  away,  in  front,  from  big,  flat 
stones  that  are  embedded  in  the  mossy  sod 
before  their  doors.  Down  in  the  valley, 
hard  by,  your  steps  stray  through  an  an- 
cient graveyard  —  in  which  stands  the  par- 
ish church,  a  carefully  restored  building 
of  the  11th  century,  with  tower,  and  clock, 
and  bell  —  and  past  a  few  fragments  of  the 
Abbey  and  Monastery  of  St.  Mary,  de- 
stroyed in  1538.  At  many  another  point, 
on  the  roads  betwixt  Warwick  and  Kenil- 
worth  and  Stratford,  I  came  upon  such 
nests  of  cosy,  rustic  quiet  and  seeming  hap- 
piness. They  build  their  country  houses 
low,  in  England,  so  that  the  trees  over- 
hang them,  and  the  cool,  friendly,  flower- 
gemmed  earth  —  parent,  and  stay,  and 
bourne  of  mortal  life  —  is  tenderly  taken 
into  their  companionship.  Here,  at  Kenil- 
worth,  as  elsewhere,  at  such  places  as 
Marlowe,  Henley,  Richmond,  Maidenhead, 


Warwick  and  kenilwortb.        79 

Cookham,  and  the  region  round  about 
Windsor,  I  saw  many  a  sweet  nook  where 
tired  life  might  be  content  to  lay  down  its 
burden  and  enter  into  its  rest.  In  all  true 
love  of  country  —  a  passion  that  seems  to 
be  more  deeply  felt  in  England  than  any- 
where else  upon  the  globe  —  there  is  love 
for  the  literal  soil  itself  :  and  that  sentiment 
in  the  human  heart  is  equally  natural  and 
pious  which  inspires  and  perpetuates  man's 
desire  that  where  he  found  his  cradle  he 
may  also  find  his  grave. 

Under  a  cloudy  sky  and  through  a  land- 
scape still  wet  and  shining  with  recent 
rain  the  drive  to  Stratford  was  a  pleasure 
so  exquisite  that  at  last  it  became  a  pain. 
Just  as  the  carriage  reached  the  junction  of 
the  Warwick  and  Snitterfield  roads  a  ray 
of  sunshine,  streaming  through  a  rift  in 
the  clouds,  fell  upon  the  neighbouring  hill- 
side, scarlet  with  poppies,  and  lit  the  scene 
as  with  the  glory  of  a  celestial  benediction. 
This  sunburst,  neither  growing  larger  nor 
coming  nearer,  followed  all  the  way  to 
Stratford;  and  there,  on  a  sudden,  the 
clouds  were  lifted  and  dispersed,  and  ' '  fair 
daylight ' '  flooded  the  whole  green  country- 
side. The  afternoon  sun  was  still  high  iD 
heaven  when  I  alighted  at  the  Red  Horse 


So  WARWICK    AND    KENILWORTH. 

and  entered  the  little  parlour  of  Washing- 
ton Irving.  They  keep  the  room  much  as 
it  was  when  he  left  it ;  for  they  are  proud 
of  his  gentle  genius  and  grateful  for  his 
commemorative  words.  In  a  corner  stands 
[1877]  the  small,  old-fashioned  hair-cloth 
arm-chair  in  which  he  sat,  on  that  night  of 
memory  and  of  musing  which  he  has  de- 
scribed in  The  Sketch-Book.  A  brass  plate 
is  affixed  to  it,  bearing  his  name ;  and  the 
visitor  observes,  in  token  of  its  age  and  ser- 
vice, that  the  hair-cloth  of  its  seat  is  con- 
siderably worn  and  frayed.  Every  Ameri- 
can pilgrim  to  Stratford  sits  in  that  chair  ; 
and  looks  with  tender  interest  on  the  old 
fireplace ;  and  reads  the  memorials  of  Irv- 
ing that  are  hung  upon  the  walls  :  and  it  is 
no  small  comfort  there  to  reflect  that  our 
illustrious  countryman — whose  name  will 
be  remembered  with  honour,  as  long  as 
literature  is  prized  among  men  —  was  the 
first,  in  modern  days,  to  discover  the  beau- 
ties and  to  interpret  the  poetry  of  the  birth- 
place of  Shakespeare. 


FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.      8l 


VIII. 

FIRST   VIEW   OF    STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

ONCE  again,  as  it  did  on  that  delicious 
summer  afternoon  which  is  for  ever 
memorable  in  my  life,  the  golden  glory  of 
the  westering  sun  burns  on  the  gray  spire  of 
Stratford  church,  and  on  the  ancient  grave- 
yard below,  —  wherein  the  mossy  stones 
lean  this  way  and  that,  in  sweet  and  orderly 
confusion,  —  and  on  the  peaceful  avenue  of 
limes,  and  on  the  burnished  water  of  silver 
Avon.  The  tall,  pointed,  many-coloured 
windows  of  the  church  glint  in  the  evening 
light.  A  cool  and  fragrant  wind  is  stirring 
the  branches  and  the  grass.  The  small 
birds,  calling  to  their  mates  or  sporting  in 
the  wanton  pleasure  of  their  airy  life,  are 
circling  over  the  church  roof  or  hiding  in 
little  crevices  of  its  walls.  On  the  vacant 
meadows  across  the  river  stretch  away  the 
long  and  level  shadows  of  the  pompous 
elms.  Here  and  there,  upon  the  river's 
brink,  are  pairs  of  what  seem  lovers,  stroll- 

F 


82      FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

mg  by  the  reedy  marge,  or  sitting  upon  the 
low  tombs,  in  the  Sabbath  quiet.  As  the 
sun  sinks  and  the  dusk  deepens,  two  figures 
of  infirm  old  women,  clad  in  black,  pass 
with  slow  and  feeble  steps  through  the 
avenue  of  limes,  and  vanish  around  an  an- 
gle of  the  church  —  that  now  stands  all 
in  shadow  :  and  no  sound  is  heard  but  the 
faint  rustling  of  the  leaves. 

Once  again,  as  on  that  sacred  night,  the 
streets  of  Stratford  are  deserted  and  silent 
under  the  star-lit  sky,  and  I  am  standing, 
in  the  dim  darkness,  at  the  door  of  the 
cottage  in  which  Shakespeare  was  born.  It 
is  empty,  dark,  and  still ;  and  in  all  the 
neighbourhood  there  is  no  stir  nor  sign  of 
life ;  but  the  quaint  casements  and  gables 
of  this  haunted  house,  its  antique  porch, 
and  the  great  timbers  that  cross  its  front 
are  luminous  as  with  a  light  of  their  own, 
so  that  I  see  them  with  perfect  vision.  I 
stand  there  a  long  time,  and  I  know  that 
I  am  to  remember  these  sights  for  ever,  as 
I  see  them  now.  After  a  while,  with  linger- 
ing reluctance,  I  turn  away  from  this  mar- 
vellous spot,  and,  presently  passing  through 
a  little,  winding  lane,  I  walk  in  the  High 
Street  of  the  town,  and  mark,  at  the  end  of 
the  prospect,  the  illuminated  clock  in  the 


FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.      83 

tower  of  the  chapel  of  the  Holy  Cross.  A 
few  chance-directed  steps  bring  me  to  what 
was  New  Place  once,  where  Shakespeare 
died ;  and  there  again  I  pause,  and  long 
remain  in  meditation,  gazing  into  the  en- 
closed garden,  where,  under  screens  of  wire, 
are  certain  strange  fragments  of  lime  and 
stone.  These  —  which  I  do  not  then  know 
—  are  the  remains  of  the  foundation  of 
Shakespeare's  house.  The  night  wanes ; 
and  still  I  walk  in  Stratford  streets ;  and 
by  and  by  I  am  standing  on  the  bridge  that 
spans  the  Avon,  and  looking  down  at  the 
thick-clustering  stars  reflected  in  its  black 
and  silent  stream.  At  last,  under  the  roof 
of  the  Red  Horse,  I  sink  into  a  troubled 
slumber,  from  which  soon  a  strain  of  celes- 
tial music  —  strong,  sweet,  jubilant,  and 
splendid  —  awakens  me  in  an  instant ;  and  I 
start  up  in  my  bed  —  to  find  that  all  around 
me  is  still  as  death ;  and  then,  drowsily, 
far-off,  the  bell  strikes  three,  in  its  weird 
and  lonesome  tower. 

Every  pilgrim  to  Stratford  knows,  in  a 
general  way,  what  he  will  there  behold. 
Copious  and  frequent  description  of  its 
Shakespearean  associations  has  made  the 
place  familiar  to  all  the  world.  Yet  these 
Shakespearean  associations  keep  a  peren* 


84      FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

nial  freshness,  and  are  equally  a  surprise 
to  the  sight  and  a  wonder  to  the  soul. 
Though  three  centuries  old  they  are  not 
stricken  with  age  or  decay.  The  house 
in  Henley  Street,  in  which,  according  to 
accepted  tradition,  Shakespeare  was  born, 
has  been  from  time  to  time  repaired ;  and 
so  it  has  been  kept  sound,  without  having 
been  materially  changed  from  what  it  was 
in  Shakespeare's  youth.  The  kind  ladies, 
Miss  Maria  and  Miss  Caroline  Chattaway, 
who  take  care  of  it  [1877],  and  with  so  much 
pride  and  courtesy  show  it  to  the  visitor, 
called  my  attention  to  a  bit  of  the  ceiling 
of  the  upper  chamber  —  the  room  of  Shake- 
speare's birth  —  which  had  begun  to  droop, 
and  had  been  skilfully  secured  with  little 
iron  laths.  It  is  in  this  room  that  the 
numerous  autographs  are  scrawled  over  the 
ceiling  and  walls.  One  side  of  the  chimney- 
piece  here  is  called  "The  Actor's  Pillar," 
so  richly  is  it  adorned  with  the  names  of 
actors;  Edmund  Kean's  signature  being 
among  them,  and  still  legible.  On  one  of 
the  window-panes,  cut  with  a  diamond,  is 
the  name  of  "  W.  Scott";  and  all  the 
panes  are  scratched  with  signatures  —  mak- 
ing you  think  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  remark 
on  bad  Shakespearean  commentators,  that 


FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.      85 

they  resemble  persons  who  write  on  glass 
with  diamonds,  and  obscure  the  light  with 
a  multitude  of  scratches.  The  floor  of  this 
room,  uncarpeted  and  almost  snow-white 
with  much  washing,  seems  still  as  hard  as 
iron  ;  yet  its  boards  have  been  hollowed  by 
wear,  and  the  heads  of  the  old  nails  that 
fasten  it  down  gleam  like  polished  silver. 
You  can  sit  in  an  antique  chair,  in  a  corner 
of  this  room,  if  you  like,  and  think  unutter- 
able things.  There  is,  certainly,  no  word 
that  can  even  remotely  suggest  the  feeling 
with  which  you  are  there  overwhelmed. 
You  can  sit  also  in  the  room  below,  in  the 
seat,  in  the  corner  of  the  wide  fireplace,  that 
Shakespeare  himself  must  often  have  occu- 
pied. They  keep  but  a  few  sticks  of  furni- 
ture in  any  part  of  the  cottage.  One  room 
is  devoted  to  Shakespearean  relics  —  more 
or  less  authentic  ;  one  of  which  is  a  school- 
boy's desk  that  was  obtained  from  the  old 
grammar-school  in  Church  Street  in  which 
Shakespeare  was  once  a  pupil.  At  the 
back  of  the  cottage,  now  isolated  from  con- 
tiguous structures,  is  a  pleasant  garden, 
and  at  one  side  is  a  cosy,  luxurious  little 
cabin  —  the  home  of  order  and  of  pious 
decorum  —  for  the  ladies  who  are  custodi- 
ans of  the  Shakespeare  House.     If  you  are 


86      FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

a  favoured  visitor,  you  may  receive  from 
that  garden,  at  parting,  all  the  flowers, 
prettily  mounted  upon  a  sheet  of  paper, 
that  poor  Ophelia  names,  in  the  scene  of 
her  madness.  "There's  rosemary,  that's 
for  remembrance :  and  there  is  pansies, 
that's  for  thoughts  :  there's  fennel  for  you, 
and  columbines :  there's  rue  for  you : 
there's  a  daisy:  —  I  would  give  you  some 
violets,  but  they  withered  all  when  my 
father  died. ' ' 

The  minute  knowledge  that  Shakespeare 
had  of  plants  and  flowers,  and  the  loving 
appreciation  with  which  he  describes  pas- 
toral scenery,  are  explained  to  the  rambler 
in  Stratford  by  all  that  he  sees  and  hears. 
There  is  a  walk  across  the  fields  to  Shottery 
that  the  poet  must  often  have  taken,  in 
the  days  of  his  courtship  of  Anne  Hatha- 
way. The  path  to  this  hamlet  passes  through 
pastures  and  gardens,  flecked  everywhere 
with  those  brilliant  scarlet  poppies  that 
are  so  radiant  and  so  bewitching  in  the 
English  landscape.  To  have  grown  up 
amid  such  surroundings,  and,  above  all, 
to  have  experienced  amid  them  the  pas- 
sion of  love,  must  have  been,  for  Shake- 
speare, the  intuitive  acquirement  of  ample 
and  specific  knowledge  of  their  manifold 


FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.      87 

beauties.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  a 
sweeter  rustic  retreat  than  Anne  Hatha- 
way' s  cottage  is,  even  now.  Tall  trees 
embower  it ;  and  over  its  porches,  and  all 
along  its  picturesque,  irregular  front,  and 
on  its  thatched  roof,  the  woodbine  and  the 
ivy  climb,  and  there  are  wild  roses  and  the 
maiden's  blush.  For  the  young  poet's  woo- 
ing no  place  could  be  fitter  than  this.  He 
would  always  remember  it  with  tender  joy. 
They  show  you,  in  that  cottage,  an  old  set- 
tle, by  the  fireside,  whereon  the  lovers  may 
have  sat  together :  it  formerly  stood  outside 
the  door :  and  in  the  rude  little  chamber 
next  the  roof  an  antique,  carved  bedstead, 
that  Anne  Hathaway  once  owned.  This, 
it  is  thought,  continued  to  be  Anne's  home 
for  several  years  of  her  married  life  —  her 
husband  being  absent  in  London,  and  some- 
times coming  down  to  visit  her,  at  Shottery. 
"He  was  wont,"  says  John  Aubrey,  the 
antiquary,  writing  in  1680,  "to  go  to  his 
native  country  once  a  year."  The  last 
surviving  descendant  of  the  Hathaway  fam- 
ily —  Mrs.  Baker  —  lives  in  the  house  now, 
and  welcomes  with  homely  hospitality  the 
wanderers,  from  all  lands,  who  seek  —  in 
a  sympathy  and  reverence  most  honourable 
to  human  nature  —  the  shrine  of  Shake 


88     FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

speare's  love.  There  is  one  such  wanderer 
who  will  never  forget  the  farewell  clasp 
of  that  kind  woman's  hand,  and  who  has 
never  parted  with  her  gift  of  woodbine  and 
roses  from  the  porch  of  Anne  Hathaway' s 
cottage. 

In  England  it  is  living,  more  than  writing 
about  it,  that  is  esteemed  by  the  best  per- 
sons. They  prize  good  writing,  but  they 
prize  noble  living  far  more.  This  is  an 
ingrained  principle,  and  not  an  artificial 
habit,  and  this  principle  doubtless  was 
as  potent  in  Shakespeare's  age  as  it  is 
to-day.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural 
than  that  this  great  writer  should  think 
less  of  his  works  than  of  the  establishment 
of  his  home.  He  would  desire,  having  won 
a  fortune,  to  dwell  in  his  native  place,  to 
enjoy  the  companionship  and  esteem  of  his 
neighbours,  to  participate  in  their  pleasures, 
to  help  them  in  their  troubles,  to  aid  in 
the  improvement  and  embellishment  of  the 
town,  to  deepen  his  hold  upon  the  affections 
of  all  around  him,  and  to  feel  that,  at  last, 
honoured  and  lamented,  his  ashes  would  be 
laid  in  the  village  church  where  he  had 
worshipped  — 

"  Among  familiar  names  to  rest, 
And  in  the  places  of  his  youth." 


FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.      89 

It  was  in  1597,  twelve  years  after  he 
went  to  London,  that  the  poet  began  to  buy 
property  in  Stratford,  and  it  was  about 
eight  years  after  his  first  purchase  that  he 
finally  settled  there,  at  New  Place.  [J.  O. 
Halliwell-Phillips  says  that  it  was  in  1609  : 
There  is  a  record  alleging  that  as  late  as 
that  year  Shakespeare  still  retained  a  resi- 
dence in  Clink  Street,  South wark.]  This 
mansion  was  altered  by  Sir  Hugh  Clopton, 
who  owned  it  toward  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  it  was  destroyed  by 
the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell,  in  1759.  The 
grounds,  which  have  been  reclaimed,  — 
chiefly  through  the  zeal  of  J.  O.  Halliwell- 
Phillips, —  are  laid  out  according  to  the 
model  they  are  supposed  to  have  presented 
when  Shakespeare  owned  them.  His  lawn, 
his  orchard,  and  his  garden  are  indicated ; 
and  a  scion  of  his  mulberry  is  growing  on 
the  spot  where  that  famous  tree  once  flour- 
ished. You  can  see  a  part  of  the  founda- 
tion of  the  old  house.  It  was  made  of 
brick  and  timber,  it  seems  to  have  had 
gables,  and  no  doubt  it  was  fashioned 
with  beautiful  curves  and  broken  lines  of 
the  Tudor  architecture.  They  show,  upon 
the  lawn,  a  stone  of  considerable  size, 
that    surmounted    its    door.      The    site  — 


90      FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

stilV  a  central  and  commodious  one  — 
is  on  the  corner  of  Church  Street  and 
Chapel  Lane  ;  and  on  the  opposite  corner 
stands  now,  as  it  has  stood  for  eight  hun- 
dred years,  the  chapel  of  the  Holy  Cross, 
with  square,  dark  tower,  fretted  parapet, 
pointed  casements,  and  Norman  porch  — 
one  of  the  most  romantic  and  picturesque 
little  churches  in  England.  It  was  easy, 
when  musing  on  that  storied  spot,  to  fancy 
Shakespeare,  in  the  gloaming  of  a  summer 
day,  strolling  on  the  lawn,  beneath  his  elms, 
and  listening  to  the  soft  and  solemn  music 
of  the  chapel  organ  ;  or  to  think  of  him  as 
stepping  forth  from  his  study,  in  the  late 
and  lonesome  hours  of  the  night,  and  paus- 
ing to  "  count  the  clock,"  or  note  "  the  ex- 
halations whizzing  in  the  air." 

The  funeral  train  of  Shakespeare,  on  that 
dark  day  when  it  moved  from  New  Place 
to  Stratford  Church,  had  but  a  little  way  to 
go.  The  river,  surely,  must  have  seemed  to 
hush  its  murmurs,  the  trees  to  droop  their 
branches,  the  sunshine  to  grow  dim  —  as 
that  sad  procession  passed !  His  grave  is 
under  the  gray  pavement  of  the  chancel, 
near  the  altar,  and  his  wife  and  one  of  his 
daughters  are  buried  beside  him.  The  pil- 
grim who  reads  upon  the  gravestone  those 


FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.      9 1 

rugged  lines  of  grievous  entreaty  and  awful 
imprecation  that  guard  the  poet's  rest 
feels  no  doubt  that  he  is  listening  to  his 
living  voice  —  for  he  has  now  seen  the  en- 
chanting beauty  of  the  place,  and  he  has 
now  felt  what  passionate  affection  it  can 
inspire.  Feeling  and  not  manner  would 
naturally  have  prompted  that  abrupt,  agon- 
ised supplication  and  threat.  Nor  does 
such  a  pilgrim  doubt,  when  gazing  on  the 
painted  bust,  above  the  grave,  —  made  by 
Gerard  Jonson,  stonecutter,  —  that  he  be- 
holds the  authentic  face  of  Shakespeare. 
It  is  not  the  heavy  face  of  the  portraits  that 
represent  it.  There  is  a  rapt,  transfigured 
quality  in  it,  that  those  copies  do  not  con- 
vey. It  is  thoughtful,  austere,  and  yet  be- 
nign. Shakespeare  was  a  hazel-eyed  man, 
with  auburn  hair,  and  the  colours  that  he 
wore  were  scarlet  and  black.  Being  painted, 
and  also  being  set  up  at  a  considerable 
height  on  the  church  wall,  the  bust  does 
not  disclose  what  is  sufficiently  perceptible 
in  a  cast  from  it  —  that  it  is  the  copy  of  a 
mask  from  the  dead  face.  One  of  the  cheeks 
is  a  little  swollen  and  the  tongue  is  slightly 
protruded  and  is  caught  between  the  lips. 
It  need  not  be  said  that  the  idle  theory  that 
the  poet  was  not  a  gentleman  of  considera- 


92      FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

tion  in  his  own  time  and  place  falls  utterly 
and  for  ever  from  the  mind  when  you  stand 
at  his  grave.  No  man  could  have  a  more 
honourable  or  sacred  place  of  sepulture ;  and 
while  it  illustrates  the  profound  esteem  of 
the  community  in  which  he  lived  it  testifies 
to  the  high  religious  character  by  which  that 
esteem  was  confirmed.  "I  commend  my 
soul  into  the  hands  of  God,  my  Creator, 
hoping,  and  assuredly  believing,  through 
the  only  merits  of  Jesus  Christ,  my  Saviour, 
to  be  made  partaker  of  life  everlasting.' '  So 
said  Shakespeare,  in  his  last  Will,  bowing  in 
humble  reverence  the  mightiest  mind  —  as 
vast  and  limitless  in  the  power  to  compre- 
hend as  to  express  !  —  that  ever  wore  the 
garments  of  mortality.1 

1  It  ought  perhaps  to  he  remarked  that  this  prel- 
ude to  Shakespeare's  Will  may  not  have  been  in- 
tended by  him  as  a  profession  of  faith,  but  may  have 
been  signed  simply  as  a  legal  formula.  His  works 
denote  a  mind  of  high  and  broad  spiritual  convic- 
tions, untrammelled  by  creed  or  doctrine.  His  in- 
clination, probably,  was  toward  the  Roman  Catholic 
church,  because  of  the  poetry  that  is  in  it:  but  such 
a  man  as  Shakespeare  would  have  viewed  all  relig- 
ious beliefs  in  a  kindly  spirit,  and  would  have  made 
no  emphatic  professions.  The  Will  was  executed  on 
March  25, 1616.  It  covers  three  sheets  of  paper;  it 
is  not  in  Shakespeare's  hand-writing,  but  each  sheet 
bears  his  signature. 


FIRST  VIEW  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.      93 

Once  again  there  is  a  sound  of  organ 
music,  very  low  and  soft,  in  Stratford 
church,  and  the  dim  light,  broken  by  the 
richly  stained  windows,  streams  across  the 
dusky  chancel,  filling  the  still  air  with  opal 
haze  and  flooding  those  gray  gravestones 
with  its  mellow  radiance.  Not  a  word  is 
spoken ;  but,  at  intervals,  the  rustle  of  the 
leaves  is  audible  in  a  sighing  wind.  What 
visions  are  these,  that  suddenly  fill  the 
region  !  What  royal  faces  of  monarchs, 
proud  with  power,  or  pallid  with  anguish  ! 
What  sweet,  imperial  women,  gleeful  with 
happy  youth  and  love,  or  wide-eyed  and 
rigid  in  tearless  woe  !  What  warriors,  with 
serpent  diadems,  defiant  of  death  and  hell ! 
The  mournful  eyes  of  Hamlet ;  the  wild 
countenance  of  Lear ;  Ariel  with  his  harp, 
and  Prospero  with  his  wand !  Here  is  no 
death  !  All  these,  and  more,  are  immortal 
shapes ;  and  he  that  made  them  so,  al- 
though his  mortal  part  be  but  a  handful 
of  dust  in  yonder  crypt,  is  a  glorious  angel 
beyond  the  stars. 


94    LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS. 


IX. 

LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS. 

THOSE  persons  upon  whom  the  spirit  of 
the  past  has  power  —  and  it  has  not 
power  upon  every  mind  !  —  are  aware  of 
the  mysterious  charm  that  invests  certain 
familiar  spots  and  objects,  in  all  old  cities. 
London,  to  observers  of  this  class,  is  a 
never-ending  delight.  Modern  cities,  for 
the  most  part,  reveal  a  definite  and  rather  a 
commonplace  design.  Their  main  avenues 
are  parallel.  Their  shorter  streets  bisect 
their  main  avenues.  They  are  diversified 
with  rectangular  squares.  Their  configura- 
tion, in  brief,  suggests  the  sapient,  utilita- 
rian forethought  of  the  land-surveyor  and 
civil  engineer.  The  ancient  British  capital, 
on  the  contrary,  is  the  expression  —  slowly 
and  often  narrowly  made  —  of  many  thou- 
sands of  characters.  It  is  a  city  that  has 
happened  —  and  the  stroller  through  the  old 
part  of  it  comes  continually  upon  the  queer- 
est imaginable  alleys,  courts,  and  nooks. 


LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.    95 

Not  far  from  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  for  in- 
stance, hidden  away  in  a  clump  of  dingy 
houses,  is  a  dismal  little  graveyard  —  the 
same  that  Dickens  has  chosen,  in  his  novel 
of  Bleak  House,  as  the  sepulchre  of  little 
Jo's  friend,  the  first  love  of  the  unfortunate 
Lady  Dedlock.  It  is  a  doleful  spot,  draped 
in  the  robes  of  faded  sorrow,  and  crowded 
into  the  twilight  of  obscurity  by  the  thick- 
clustering  habitations  of  men.1  The  Crip- 
plegate  church,  St.  Giles's,  a  less  lugubrious 
spot  and  less  difficult  of  access,  is  never- 
theless strangely  sequestered,  so  that  it 
also  affects  the  observant  eye  as  equally 
one  of  the  surprises  of  London.  I  saw  it, 
for  the  first  time,  on  a  gray,  sad  Sunday,  a 
little  before  twilight,  and  when  the  service 
was  going  on  within  its  venerable  walls. 
The  footsteps  of  John  Milton  were  some- 
times on  the  threshold  of  the  Cripplegate, 
and  his  grave  is  in  the  nave  of  that  ancient 
church.  A  simple  flat  stone  marks  that 
sacred  spot,  and  many  a  heedless  foot 
tramples  over  that  hallowed  dust.  From 
Golden  Lane,  which  is  close  by,  you  can  see 
the  tower  of  this  church  ;  and,  as  you  walk 
from  the  place  where  Milton  lived  to  the 

1  This  place  has  been  renovated  and  is  no  longer 
a  disgrace. 


96    LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS. 

place  where  his  ashes  repose,  you  seem, 
with  a  solemn,  awe-stricken  emotion,  to  be 
actually  following  in  his  funeral  train.  At 
St.  Giles's  occurred  the  marriage  of  Crom- 
well.1 I  remembered  —  as  I  stood  there  and 
conjured  up  that  scene  of  golden  joy  and 
hope  —  the  place  of  the  Lord  Protector's 
coronation  in  Westminster  Hall ;  the  place, 
still  marked,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  where 
his  body  was  buried ;  and  old  Temple  Bar, 
on  which  (if  not  on  Westminster  Hall)  his 
mutilated  corse  was  finally  exposed  to  the 
blind  rage  of  the  fickle  populace.  A  little 
time  —  a  very  little  time  —  serves  to  gather 
up  equally  the  happiness  and  the  anguish, 
the  conquest  and  the  defeat,  the  greatness 
and  the  littleness  of  human  life,  and  to 
cover  them  all  with  silence. 

But  not  always  with  oblivion.  These 
quaint  churches,  and  many  other  moulder- 
ing relics  of  the  past,  in  London,  are  haunted 
with  associations  that  never  can  perish  out 
of  remembrance.  In  fact  the  whole  of  the 
old  city  impresses  you  as  densely  invested 

i  The.  church  of  St.  Giles  was  built  in  1117  by 
Queen  Maud.  It  was  demolished  in  1623  and  rebuilt 
in  1731.  The  tomb  of  Richard  Pendrell,  who  saved 
Charles  the  Second,  after  Worcester  fight,  in  1651, 
is  in  the  churchyard. 


LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.    97 

with  an  atmosphere  of  human  experience, 
dark,  sad,  and  lamentable.  Walking,  alone, 
in  ancient  quarters  of  it,  after  midnight,  I 
was  aware  of  the  oppressive  sense  of  trag- 
edies that  have  been  acted  and  misery 
that  has  been  endured  in  its  dusky  streets 
and  melancholy  houses.  They  do  not  err 
who  say  that  the  spiritual  life  of  man  leaves 
its  influence  in  the  physical  objects  by 
which  he  is  surrounded.  Night-walks  in 
London  will  teach  you  that,  if  they  teach 
you  nothing  else.  I  went  more  than  once 
into  Brooke  Street,  Holborn,  and  traced 
the  desolate  footsteps  of  poor  Thomas  Chat- 
terton  to  the  scene  of  his  self-murder  and 
agonised,  pathetic,  deplorable  death.  It  is 
more  than  a  century  (1770),  since  that 
"marvellous  boy"  was  driven  to  suicide 
by  neglect,  hunger,  and  despair.  They 
are  tearing  down  the  houses  on  one  side 
of  Brooke  Street  now  (1877);  it  is  doubt- 
ful which  house  was  No.  4,  in  the  attic 
of  which  Chatterton  died,  and  doubtful 
whether  it  remains  :  his  grave  —  a  pauper's 
grave,  that  was  made  in  a  workhouse 
burial-ground,  in  Shoe  Lane,  long  since 
obliterated  —  is  unknown  ;  but  his  presence 
hovers  about  that  region  ;  his  strange  and 
touching  story  tinges  its  commonness  with 

G 


98    LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS. 

the  mystical  moonlight  of  romance  ;  and 
his  name  is  blended  with  it  for  ever.  On 
another  night  I  walked  from  St.  James's 
Palace  to  Whitehall  (the  York  Place  of 
Cardinal  Wolsey),  and  viewed  the  ground 
that  Charles  the  First  must  have  traversed, 
on  his  way  to  the  scaffold.  The  story  of 
the  slaughter  of  that  king,  always  sorrow- 
ful to  remember,  is  very  grievous  to  con- 
sider, when  you  realise,  upon  the  actual 
scene  of  his  ordeal  and  death,  his  exalted 
fortitude  and  his  bitter  agony.  It  seemed 
as  if  I  could  almost  hear  his  voice,  as  it 
sounded  on  that  fateful  morning,  asking 
that  his  body  might  be  more  warmly  clad, 
lest,  in  the  cold  January  air,  he  should 
shiver,  and  so,  before  the  eyes  of  his  ene- 
mies, should  seem  to  be  trembling  with 
fear.  The  Puritans,  having  brought  that 
poor  man  to  the  place  of  execution,  kept 
him  in  suspense  from  early  morning  till 
after  two  o'clock  in  the  day,  while  they  de- 
bated over  a  proposition  to  spare  his  life  — 
upon  any  condition  they  might  choose  to 
make  —  that  had  been  sent  to  them  by 
his  son,  Prince  Charles.  Old  persons  were 
alive  in  London,  not  very  long  ago,  who  re- 
membered having  seen,  in  their  childhood, 
the   window,    in    the    end    of    Whitehall 


LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.    99 

Banqueting  House  —  now  a  Chapel  Royal 
and  all  that  remains  of  the  ancient  palace  — 
through  which  the  doomed  monarch  walked 
forth  to  the  block.  It  was  long  ago  walled 
up,  and  the  palace  has  undergone  much 
alteration  since  the  days  of  the  Stuarts. 
In  the  rear  of  "Whitehall  stands  a  bronze 
statue  of  James  the  Second  by  Roubiliac 
(whose  marbles  are  numerous,  in  the  Abbey 
and  elsewhere  in  London,  and  whose  grave 
is  in  the  church  of  St.  Martin) ,  one  of  the 
most  graceful  works  of  that  spirited  sculp- 
tor. The  figure  is  finely  modelled.  The 
face  is  dejected  and  full  of  reproach.  The 
right  hand  points,  with  a  truncheon,  toward 
the  earth.  It  is  impossible  to  mistake  the 
ruminant,  melancholy  meaning  of  this  me- 
morial ;  and  equally  it  is  impossible  to 
walk  without  both  thought  that  instructs 
and  emotion  that  elevates  through  a  city 
which  thus  abounds  with  traces  of  momen- 
tous incident  and  representative  experience. 
The  literary  pilgrim  in  London  has  this 
double  advantage  —  that  while  he  communes 
with  the  past  he  may  enjoy  in  the  present. 
Yesterday  and  to-day  are  commingled  here, 
in  a  way  that  is  almost  ludicrous.  When 
you  turn  from  Roubiliac' s  statue  of  James 
your  eyes  rest  upon  the  retired  house  of  Dis- 


IOO   LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS. 

raeli.  If  you  walk  in  Whitehall,  toward 
the  Palace  of  Westminster,  some  friend 
may  chance  to  tell  you  how  the  great  Duke 
of  Wellington  walked  there,  in  the  feeble- 
ness of  his  age,  from  the  Horse  Guards  to 
the  House  of  Lords  ;  and  with  what  pleased 
complacency  the  old  warrior  used  to  boast 
of  his  skill  in  threading  a  crowded  thorough- 
fare,—  unaware  that  the  police,  acting  by 
particular  orders,  protected  his  reverend 
person  from  errant  cabs  and  pushing  pedes- 
trians. As  I  strolled  one  day  past  Lam- 
beth Palace  it  happened  that  the  palace 
gates  were  suddenly  unclosed  and  that  His 
Grace  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  came 
forth,  on  horseback,  from  that  episcopal 
residence,  and  ambled  away  toward  the 
House  of  Lords.  It  is  the  same  arched 
portal  through  which,  in  other  days,  passed 
out  the  stately  train  of  Wolsey.  It  is  the 
same  towered  palace  that  Queen  Elizabeth 
looked  upon  as  her  barge  swept  past,  on 
its  watery  track  to  Kichmond.  It  is  for 
ever  associated  with  the  memory  of  Thomas 
Cromwell.  In  the  church,  hard  by,  rest  the 
ashes  of  men  distinguished  in  the  most 
diverse  directions  —  Jackson,  the  clown; 
and  Tenison,  the  archbishop,  the  "honest, 
prudent,  laborious,   and  benevolent"  pri- 


LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.   IOI 

mate  of  William  the  Third,  who  was  thought 
worthy  to  succeed  in  office  the  illustrious 
Tillotson.  The  cure  of  souls  is  sought  here 
with  just  as  vigorous  energy  as  when  Tillot- 
son wooed  by  his  goodness  and  charmed  by 
his  winning  eloquence.  Not  a  great  distance 
from  this  spot  you  come  upon  the  college 
at  Dulwich  that  Edward  Alleyn  founded, 
in  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  and  that,  still 
subsists  upon  the  old  actor's  endowment. 
It  is  said  that  Alleyn  —  who  was  a  man  of 
fortune,  and  whom  a  contemporary  epigram 
styles  the  best  actor  of  his  day  —  gained 
the  most  of  his  money  by  the  exhibition  of 
bears.  But,  howsoever  gained,  he  made 
a  good  use  of  it.  His  tomb  is  in  the  centre 
of  the  college.  Here  may  be  seen  one  of  the 
best  picture-galleries  in  England.  One  of 
the  cherished  paintings  in  that  collection  is 
the  famous  portrait,  by  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, of  Mrs.  Siddons  as  the  Tragic  Muse 
—  remarkable  for  its  colour,  and  splendidly 
expositive  of  the  boldness  of  feature,  bril- 
liancy of  countenance,  and  stately  grace  of 
posture  for  which  its  original  was  distin- 
guished. Another  represents  two  renowned 
beauties  of  their  day  —  the  Linley  sisters  — - 
who  became  Mrs.  Sheridan  and  Mrs.  Tickel. 
You  do  not  wonder,  as  you  look  on  those 


102   LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS. 

fair  faces,  sparkling  with  health,  arch  with 
merriment,  lambent  with  sensibility,  and 
soft  with  goodness  and  feeling,  that  Sheridan 
should  have  fought  duels  for  such  a  prize 
as  the  lady  of  his  love  ;  or  that  those  fasci- 
nating creatures,  favoured  alike  by  the 
Graces  and  the  Muse,  should  in  their  gen- 
tle lives  have  been,  "  like  Juno's  swans, 
coupled  and  inseparable."  Mary,  Mrs. 
Tickel,  died  first ;  and  Moore,  in  his  Life 
of  Sheridan,  has  preserved  a  lament  for 
her,  written  by  Eliza,  Mrs.  Sheridan,  which 
—  for  deep,  true  sorrow  and  melodious 
eloquence  —  is  worthy  to  be  named  with 
Thomas  Tickel' s  monody  on  Addison  or 
Cowper's  memorial  lines  on  his  mother's 
picture :  — 

"  Shall  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world  combined 
Erase  thy  image,  Mary,  from  my  mind, 
Or  bid  me  hope  from  others  to  receive 
The  fond  affection  thou  alone  couldst  give  ? 
Ah  no,  my  best  beloved,  thou  still  shalt  be 
My  friend,  my  sister,  all  the  world  to  me  !  " 

Precious  also  among  the  gems  of  the 
Dulwich  gallery  are  certain  excellent  speci- 
mens of  the  gentle,  dreamy  style  of  Murillo. 
The  pilgrim  passes  on,  by  a  short  drive,  to 
Sydenham,  and  dines  at  the  Crystal  Palace 


LONDON  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.   103 

—  and  still  he  finds  the  faces  of  the  past  and 
the  present  confronted,  in  a  manner  that  is 
almost  comic.  Nothing  could  be  more  aptly- 
representative  of  the  practical,  ostentatious 
phase  of  the  spirit  of  to-day  than  is  this 
enormous,  opulent,  and  glittering  "palace 
made  of  windows."  Yet  I  saw  there  the 
carriage  in  which  Napoleon  Buonaparte 
used  to  drive,  at  St.  Helena  —  a  vehicle  as 
sombre  and  ghastly  as  were  the  broken  for- 
tunes of  its  death- stricken  master;  and, 
sitting  at  a  table  close  by,  I  saw  the  son 
of  Buonaparte's  fiery  champion,  William 
Hazlitt. 

It  was  a  gray  and  misty  evening.  The 
plains  below  the  palace  terraces  were  veiled 
in  shadow,  through  which,  here  and  there, 
twinkled  the  lights  of  some  peaceful  villa. 
Far  away  the  spires  and  domes  of  London, 
dimly  seen>  pierced  the  city's  nightly  pall 
of  smoke.  It  was  a  dream  too  sweet  to 
last.  It  ended  when  all  the  illuminations 
were  burnt  out ;  when  the  myriads  of  red 
and  green  and  yellow  stars  had  fallen  ;  and 
all  the  silver  fountains  had  ceased  to  play. 


104  RELICS   OF   LORD   BYRON. 


X. 

RELICS   OF   LORD   BYRON. 

THE  Byron  Memorial  Loan  Collection, 
that  was  displayed  at  the  Albert 
Memorial  Hall,  for  a  short  time  in  the  sum. 
mer  of  1877,  did  not  attract  much  atten- 
tion :  yet  it  was  a  vastly  impressive  show 
of  relics.  The  catalogue  names  seventy- 
four  objects,  together  with  thirty-nine  de- 
signs for  a  monument  to  Byron.  The  de- 
sign that  has  been  chosen  presents  a  seated 
figure,  of  the  young  sailor-boy  type.  The 
right  hand  supports  the  chin  ;  the  left,  rest- 
ing on  the  left  knee,  holds  an  open  book  and 
a  pencil.  The  dress  consists  of  a  loose 
shirt,  open  at  the  throat  and  on  the  bosom, 
a  flowing  neckcloth,  and  wide,  marine  trou- 
sers. Byron's  dog,  Boatswain  —  commem- 
orated in  the  well-known  misanthropic 
epitaph  — 

"  To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise, 
I  never  knew  but  one,  and  here  he  lies  "  — 

is  shown,  in  effigy,  at  the  poet's  feet.    The 


RELICS   OF   LORD   BYRON.  IO5 

treatment  of  the  subject,  in  this  model, 
certainly  deserves  to  be  called  free,  but  the 
general  effect  of  the  work  is  finical.  The 
statue  will  probably  be  popular  ;  but  it 
will  give  no  adequate  idea  of  the  man. 
Byron  was  both  massive  and  intense  ;  and 
this  image  is  no  more  than  the  usual  hero 
of  nautical  romance.  (It  was  dedicated, 
in  London,  in  May,  1880,  and  stands  in 
Hamilton  Gardens,  near  Hyde  Park  Cor- 
ner.) 

It  was  the  treasure  of  relics,  however, 
and  not  the  statuary,  that  more  attracted 
notice.  The  relics  were  exhibited  in  three 
glass  cases,  exclusive  of  large  portraits.  It 
is  impossible  to  make  the  reader  —  suppos- 
ing him  to  revere  this  great  poet's  genius 
and  to  care  for  his  memory  —  feel  the  thrill 
of  emotion  that  was  aroused  by  actual 
sight,  and  almost  actual  touch,  of  objects 
so  intimately  associated  with  the  living 
Byron.  Five  pieces  of  his  hair  were  shown, 
one  of  which  was  cut  off,  after  his  death,  by 
Captain  Trelawny — the  remarkable  gentle- 
man who  says  that  he  uncovered  the  legs  of 
the  corse,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  nature 
and  extent  of  their  deformity.  All  these 
locks  of  hair  are  faded  and  all  present  a 
mixture  of  gray  and  auburn.     Byron's  hair 


106  RELICS   OF  LORD   BYRON. 

was  not,  seemingly,  of  a  fine  texture, 
and  it  turned  gray  early  in  life.  These 
tresses  were  lent  to  the  exhibition  by 
Lady  Dorchester,  John  Murray,  H.  M. 
Robinson,  D.D.,  and  E.  J.  Trelawny.  A 
strangely  interesting  memorial  was  a  little 
locket  of  plain  gold,  shaped  like  a  heart, 
that  Byron  habitually  wore.  Near  to  this 
was  the  crucifix  found  in  his  bed  at  Misso- 
longhi,  after  his  death.  It  is  about  ten 
inches  long  and  is  made  of  ebony.  A  small 
bronze  figure  of  Christ  is  displayed  upon  it, 
and  at  the  feet  of  this  figure  -are  cross-bones 
and  a  skull,  of  the  same  metal.  A  glass 
beaker,  that  Byron  gave  to  his  butler,  in 
1815,  attracted  attention  by  its  portly  size 
and,  to  the  profane  fancy,  hinted  that  his 
lordship  had  formed  a  liberal  estimate  of 
that  butler' s  powers  of  suction.  Four  articles 
of  head-gear  occupied  a  prominent  place  in 
one  of  the  cabinets.  Two  are  helmets  that 
Byron  wore  when  he  was  in  Greece,  in  1824 
—  and  very  queer  must  have  been  his  ap- 
pearance when  he  wore  them.  One  is  light 
blue,  the  other  dark  green  ;  both  are  faded  ; 
both  are  fierce  with  brass  ornaments  and 
barbaric  with  brass  scales  like  those  of  a 
snake.  A  comelier  object  is  the  poet's 
' '  boarding-cap  "  —  a  leather  slouch,  turned 


RELICS   OF  LORD   BYRON.  IOJ> 

up  with  green  velvet  and  studded  with 
brass  nails.  Many  small  articles  of  Byron's 
property  were  scattered  through  the  cases. 
A  corpulent  little  silver  watch,  with  Arabic 
numerals  upon  its  face,  and  a  meerschaum 
pipe,  not  much  coloured,  were  among  them. 
The  cap  that  he  sometimes  wore,  during 
the  last  years  of  his  life,  —  the  one  depicted 
in  a  well-known  sketch  of  him  by  Count 
D'Orsay,  — was  exhibited,  and  so  was  D'Or- 
say's  portrait.  The  cap  is  of  green  velvet, 
not  much  tarnished,  and  is  encircled  by 
a  gold  band  and  faced  by  an  ugly  visor. 
The  face  in  the  sketch  is  supercilious  and 
cruel.  A  better,  and  obviously  truer  sketch 
is  that  made  by  Cattermole,  which  also  was 
in  this  exhibition.  Strength  in  despair  and 
a  dauntless  spirit  that  shines  through  the 
ravages  of  irremediable  suffering  are  the 
qualities  of  this  portrait ;  and  they  make  it 
marvellously  effective.  Thorwaldsen's  fine 
bust  of  Byron,  made  for  Hobhouse,  and 
also  the  celebrated  Phillips  portrait— that 
Scott  said  was  the  best  likeness  of  Byron 
ever  painted — occupied  places  in  this  group. 
The  copy  of  the  New  Testament  that  Lady 
Byron  gave  to  her  husband,  and  that  he,  in 
turn,  presented  to  Lady  Caroline  Lamb,  was 
there,  and  is  a  pocket  volume,  bound  in 


108  RELICS   OF  LORD   BYRON. 

black  leather,  with  the  inscription,  M  From 
a  sincere  and  anxious  friend,"  written  in  a 
stiff,  formal  hand,  across  the  fly  -leaf.  A  gold 
ring  that  the  poet  constantly  wore,  and  the 
collar  of  his  dog  Boatswain  —  a  discoloured 
band  of  brass,  with  sharply  jagged  edges  — 
should  also  be  named  as  among  the  most 
interesting  of  the  relics. 

But  the  most  remarkable  objects  of  all 
were  the  manuscripts.  These  comprise  the 
original  draft  of  the  third  canto  of  "  Childe 
Harold,"  written  on  odd  bits  of  paper, 
during  Byron's  journey  from  London  to 
Venice,  in  1816;  the  first  draft  of  the 
fourth  canto,  together  with  a  clean  copy  of 
it;  the  notes  to  "Marino  Faliero ; "  the 
concluding  stage  directions  —  much  scrawled 
and  blotted  —  in  "  Heaven  and  Earth  ;  "  a 
document  concerning  the  poet's  matrimo- 
nial trouble  ;  and  about  fifteen  of  his  let- 
ters. The  passages  seen  are  those  beginning 
"Since  my  young  days  of  passion,  joy,  or 
pain  ; "  "To  bear  unhurt  what  time  cannot 
abate;"  and  in  canto  fourth  the  stanzas 
118  to  129  inclusive.  The  writing  is  free 
and  strong,  and  it  still  remains  legible 
although  the  paper  is  yellow  with  age. 
Altogether  these  relics  were  touchingly  sig- 
nificant of  the  strange,  dark,  sad  career  of 


RELICS   OP   LORD   BYRON.  I09 

a  wonderful  man.  Yet,  as  already  said, 
they  attracted  but  little  notice.  The  mem- 
ory of  Byron  seems  darkened,  as  with  the 
taint  of  lunacy.  "  He  did  strange  things," 
one  Englishman  said  to  me;  "and  there 
was  something  queer  about  him."  The 
London  house  in  which  he  was  born,  in 
Holies  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  is  marked 
with  a  tablet,  —  according  to  a  custom  insti- 
tuted by  a  society  of  arts.  (It  was  torn 
down  in  1890  and  its  site  is  now  occupied 
by  a  shop,  bearing  the  name  of  John  Lewis 
&  Co.)  Two  houses  in  which  he  lived,  No. 
8  St.  James  Street,  near  the  old  palace,  and 
No.  139  Piccadilly  are  not  marked.  The 
house  of  his  birth  was  occupied  in  1877 
by  a  descendant  of  Elizabeth  Ery,  the 
philanthropist. 

The  custom  of  marking  the  houses  associ- 
ated with  great  names  is  obviously  a  good 
one,  and  it  ought  to  be  adopted  in  other 
countries.  Two  buildings,  one  in  West- 
minster and  one  in  the  grounds  of  the  South 
Kensington  Museum,  bear  the  name  of 
Franklin  ;  and  I  also  saw  memorial  tablets 
to  Dryden  and  Burke  in  Gerrard  Street,  to 
Dryden  in  Fetter  Lane,  to  Mrs.  Siddons  in 
Baker  Street,  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and 
to  Hogarth  in  Leicester  Square,  to  Garrick 


110  RELICS   OF   LOUD   BYRON. 

in  the  Adelphi  Terrace,  to  Louis  Napoleon, 
and  to  many  other  renowned  individuals. 
The  room  that  Sir  Joshua  occupied  as  a 
studio  is  now  an  auction  mart.  The  stone 
stairs  leading  up  to  it  are  much  worn,  but 
remain  as  they  were  when,  it  may  be  imag- 
ined, Burke,  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Langton, 
Beauclerk,  and  Boswell  walked  there,  on 
many  a  festive  night  in  the  old  times. 

It  is  a  breezy,  slate-coloured  evening  in 
July.  I  look  from  the  window  of  a  London 
house  that  fronts  a  spacious  park.  Those 
great  elms,  which  in  their  wealth  of  foliage 
and  irregular  and  pompous  expanse  of  limb 
are  finer  than  all  other  trees  of  their  class, 
fill  the  prospect,  and  nod  and  murmur  in 
the  wind.  Through  a  rift  in  their  heavy- 
laden  boughs  is  visible  a  long  vista  of  green 
field,  in  which  many  children  are  at  play. 
Their  laughter  and  the  rustle  of  leaves, 
with  now  and  then  the  click  of  a  horse's 
hoof  upon  the  road  near  by,  make  up  the 
music  of  this  hallowed  hour.  The  sky  is  a 
little  overcast  but  not  gloomy.  As  I  muse 
upon  this  delicious  scene  the  darkness 
slowly  gathers,  the  stars  come  out,  and 
presently  the  moon  rises,  and  blanches  the 
meadow  with  silver  light.  Such  has  been 
the  English  summer,  with  scarce  a  hint  of 
either  heat  or  storm. 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY.  Ill 


XL 

WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

IT  is  strange  that  the  life  of  the  past, 
in  its  unfamiliar  remains  and  fading 
traces,  should  so  far  surpass  the  life  of  the 
present,  in  impressive  force  and  influence. 
Human  characteristics,  although  manifested 
under  widely  different  conditions,  were  the 
same  in  old  times  that  they  are  now.  It  is 
not  in  them,  surely,  that  we  are  to  seek  for 
the  mysterious  charm  that  hallows  ancient 
objects  and  the  historical  antiquities  of  the 
world.  There  is  many  a  venerable,  weather- 
stained  church  in  London,  at  sight  of  which 
your  steps  falter  and  your  thoughts  take  a 
wistful,  melancholy  turn  —  though  then  you 
may  not  know  either  who  built  it,  or  who 
has  worshipped  in  it,  or  what  dust  of  the 
dead  Is  mouldering  in  its  vaults.  The  spirit 
which  thus  instantly  possesses  and  controls 
you  is  not  one  of  association,  but  is  inherent 
in  the  place.  Time's  shadow  on  the  works 
of  man,  like  moonlight  on  a  landscape,  gives 


112  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

only  graces  to  the  view  — tingeing  them,  the 
while,  with  sombre  sheen  —  and  leaves  all 
blemishes  in  darkness.  This  may  suggest 
the  reason  that  relics  of  bygone  years  so 
sadly  please  and  strangely  awe  us,  in  the 
passing  moment ;  or  it  may  be  that  we  in- 
voluntarily contrast  their  apparent  perman- 
ence with  our  own  evanescent  mortality, 
and  so  are  dejected  with  a  sentiment  of 
dazed  helplessness  and  solemn  grief.  This 
sentiment  it  is  —  allied  to  bereaved  love  and 
a  natural  wish  for  remembrance  after  death 
—  that  has  filled  Westminster  Abbey,  and 
many  another  holy  mausoleum,  with  sculp- 
tured memorials  of  the  departed  ;  and  this, 
perhaps,  is  the  subtle  power  that  makes  us 
linger  beside  them,  "with  thoughts  beyond 
the  reaches  of  our  souls." 

When  the  gentle  angler  Izaak  Walton 
went  into  Westminster  Abbey  to  visit  the 
grave  of  Casaubon,  he  scratched  his  initials 
on  the  scholar's  monument,  where  the  record, 
"I.  W.,  1658,"  may  still  be  read  by  the 
stroller  in  Poets'  Corner.  One  might  well 
wish  to  follow  that  example,  and  even  thus 
to  associate  his  name  with  the  great  cathe- 
dral. And  not  in  pride  but  in  humble 
reverence  !  Here  if  anywhere  on  earth  self- 
assertion  is  rebuked  and  human  eminence 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY.  II3 

set  at  nought.  Among  all  the  impressions 
that  crowd  upon  the  mind  in  this  wonder- 
ful place  that  which  oftenest  recurs  and 
longest  remains  is  the  impression  of  man's 
individual  insignificance.  This  is  salutary, 
but  it  is  also  dark.  There  can  be  no  enjoy- 
ment of  the  Abbey  till,  after  much  com- 
munion with  the  spirit  of  the  place,  your 
soul  is  soothed  by  its  beauty  rather  than 
overwhelmed  by  its  majesty,  and  your  mind 
ceases  from  the  vain  effort  to  grasp  and  in- 
terpret its  tremendous  meaning.  You  can- 
not long  endure,  and  you  never  can  express, 
the  sense  of  grandeur  that  is  inspired  by 
Westminster  Abbey ;  but,  when  at  length 
its  shrines  and  tombs  and  statues  become 
familiar,  when  its  chapels,  aisles,  arches  and 
cloisters  are  grown  companionable,  and  you 
can  stroll  and  dream  undismayed  "through 
rows  of  warriors  and  through  walks  of 
kings,"  there  is  no  limit  to  the  pensive 
memories  they  awaken  and  the  poetic 
fancies  they  prompt.  In  this  church  are 
buried,  among  generations  of  their  nobles 
and  courtiers,  fourteen  monarchs  of  England 
—  beginning  with  the  Saxon  Sebert  and 
ending  with  George  the  Second.  Fourteen 
queens  rest  here,  and  many  children  of  the 
royal  blood  who  never  came  to  the  throne. 

H 


114  WESTMINSTER   ABBEY. 

Here,  confronted  in  a  haughty  rivalry  of 
solemn  pomp,  rise  the  equal  tombs  of 
Elizabeth  Tudor  and  Mary  Stuart.  Queen 
Eleanor's  dust  is  here,  and  here,  too,  is  the 
dust  of  the  grim  Queen  Mary.  In  one  little 
chapel  you  may  pace,  with  but  half  a  dozen 
steps,  across  the  graves  of  Charles  the 
Second,  William  and  Mary,  and  Queen 
Anne  and  her  consort  Prince  George.  At 
the  tomb  of  Henry  the  Fifth  you  may  see 
the  helmet,  shield,  and  saddle  that  were 
worn  by  the  valiant  young  king  at  A  gin- 
court  ;  and  close  by  —  on  the  tomb  of  Mar- 
garet Woodeville,  daughter  of  Edward  the 
Eourth  —  the  sword  and  shield  that  were 
borne,  in  royal  state,  before  the  great  Edward 
the  Third,  five  hundred  years  ago.  The 
princes  who  are  said  to  have  been  murdered 
in  the  Tower  are  commemorated  here  by  an 
altar,  set  up  by  Charles  the  Second,  whereon 
the  inscription  —  blandly  and  almost  humor- 
ously oblivious  of  the  incident  of  Cromwell 
—  states  that  it  was  erected  in  the  thirtieth 
year  of  Charles's  reign.  Richard  the  Second, 
deposed  and  assassinated,  is  here  entombed  ; 
and  within  a  few  feet  of  him  are  the  relics 
of  his  uncle,  the  able  and  powerful  Duke 
of  Gloucester,  treacherously  ensnared  and 
betrayed  to  death.     Here  also,  huge,  rough, 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  II5 

and  gray,  is  the  stone  sarcophagus  of  Edward 
the  First,  which,  when  opened,  in  1771,  dis- 
closed the  skeleton  of  departed  majesty,  still 
perfect,  wearing  robes  of  gold  tissue  and 
crimson  velvet,  and  having  a  crown  on  the 
head  and  a  sceptre  in  the  hand.  So  sleep,  in 
jewelled  darkness  and  gaudy  decay,  what 
once  were  monarchs  !  And  all  around  are 
great  lords,  sainted  prelates,  famous  states- 
men, renowned  soldiers,  and  illustrious 
poets.  Burleigh,  Pitt,  Fox,  Burke,  Canning, 
Newton,  Barrow,  Wilberforce  —  names  for- 
ever glorious  !  —  are  here  enshrined  in  the 
grandest  sepulchre  on  earth. 

The  interments  that  have  been  effected  in 
and  around  the  Abbey  since  the  remote 
age  of  Edward  the  Confessor  must  number 
thousands;  but  only  about  six  hundred  are 
named  in  the  guide-books.  In  the  south 
transept,  which  is  Poets'  Corner,  rest 
Chaucer,  Spenser,  Drayton,  Cowley,  Dry- 
den,  Beaumont,  Davenant,  Prior,  Gay, 
Congreve,  Rowe,  Dr.  Johnson,  Campbell, 
Macaulay,  and  Dickens.  Memorials  to 
many  other  poets  and  writers  have  been 
ranged  on  the  adjacent  walls  and  pillars; 
but  these  are  among  the  authors  that  were 
actually  buried  in  this  place.  Ben  Jonson 
is  not  here,  but  —  in  an  upright  posture,  it 


Il6  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

is  said  —  under  the  north  aisle  of  the  Ab- 
bey ;  Addison  is  in  the  chapel  of  Henry  the 
Seventh,  at  the  foot  of  the  monument  of 
Charles  Montague,  the  great  Earl  of  Hali- 
fax ;  and  Bulwer  is  in  the  chapel  of  Saint 
Edmund.  Garrick,  Sheridan,  Henderson, 
Cumberland,  Handel,  Parr,  Sir  Archibald 
Campbell,  and  the  once  so  mighty  Duke  of 
Argyle  are  almost  side  by  side ;  while  in 
St.  Edward's  chapel  sleep  Anne  of  Cleves, 
the  divorced  wife  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  and 
Anne  Neville,  Queen  of  Richard  the  Third. 
Betterton  and  Spranger  Barry  are  in  the 
cloisters  —  where  may  be  read  in  four  little 
words  the  most  touching  epitaph  in  the 
Abbey :  ' '  Jane  Lister  —  dear  child."  There 
are  no  monuments  to  either  Byron,  Shelley, 
Swift,  Pope,  Bolingbroke,  Keats,  Cowper, 
Moore,  or  Young;  but  Mason  and  Shad- 
well  are  commemorated  ;  and  Barton  Booth 
is  splendidly  inurned ;  while  hard  by,  in 
the  cloisters,  a  place  was  found  for  Mrs. 
Cibber,  Tom  Brown,  Anne  Bracegirdle, 
Anne  Oldfield,  and  Aphra  Behn.  The  des- 
tinies have  not  always  been  stringently 
fastidious  as  to  the  admission  of  lodgers  to 
this  sacred  ground.  The  pilgrim  is  startled 
by  some  of  the  names  that  he  finds  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  pained  by  refiec- 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY.  117 

tion  on  the  absence  of  some  that  he  will 
seek  in  vain.  Yet  he  will  not  fail  to  moral- 
ise, as  he  strolls  in  Poets'  Corner,  upon  the 
inexorable  justice  with  which  time  repudi- 
ates fictitious  reputations  and  twines  the 
laurel  on  only  the  worthiest  brows.  In 
well-nigh  five  hundred  years  of  English 
literature  there  have  lived  only  about  a 
hundred  and  ten  poets  whose  names  sur- 
vive in  any  needed  chronicle;  and  not  all 
of  these  possess  life  outside  of  the  library. 
To  muse  over  the  literary  memorials  in  the 
Abbey  is  also  to  think  upon  the  seeming 
caprice  of  chance  with  which  the  graves  of 
the  British  poets  have  been  scattered  far 
and  wide  throughout  the  land.  Gower, 
Fletcher,  and  Massinger  (to  name  but  a 
few  of  them)  rest  in  Southwark;  Sydney 
and  Donne  in  St.  Paul's  cathedral;  More 
(his  head,  that  is,  while  his  body  moulders 
in  the  Tower  chapel)  at  Canterbury ; 
Drummond  in  Lasswade  church  ;  Dorset 
at  Withyham,  in  Sussex ;  Waller  at  Bea- 
consfield  ;  Wither,  unmarked,  in  the  church 
of  the  Savoy  ;  Milton  in  the  church  of  the 
Cripplegate  ;  Swift  at  Dublin,  in  St.  Pa- 
trick's cathedral ;  Young  at  Welwyn ; 
Pope  at  Twickenham ;  Thomson  at  Bich- 
mond ;    Gray  at    Stoke-Pogis ;    Watts    in 


Il8  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Bunhill- Fields  ;  Collins  in  an  obscure  little 
church  at  Chichester  ;  Cowper  in  Dereham 
church  ;  Goldsmith  in  the  garden  of  the 
Temple  ;  Savage  at  Bristol ;  Burns  at  Dum- 
fries ;  Rogers  at  Hornsey ;  Crabbe  at  Trow- 
bridge ;  Scott  in  Dryburgh  abbey  ;  Cole- 
ridge at  Highgate ;  Byron  in  Hucknall 
church,  near  Nottingham  ;  Moore  at  Brom- 
ham ;  Montgomery  at  Sheffield  ;  Heber  at 
Calcutta  ;  Southey  in  Crossthwaite  church- 
yard, near  Keswick ;  Wordsworth  and 
Hartley  Coleridge  side  by  side  in  the 
churchyard  of  Grasmere ;  and  Clough  at 
Florence  —  whose  lovely  words  may  here 
speak  for  all  of  them  — 

"  One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  held,  where'er  they  fare : 
O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas, 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them,  there!  " 

But  it  is  not  alone  in  the  great  Abbey 
that  the  rambler  in  London  is  impressed  by 
poetic  antiquity  and  touching  historic  asso- 
ciation —  always  presuming  that  he  has 
been  a  reader  of  English  literature  and  that 
his  reading  has  sunk  into  his  mind.  Little 
things,  equally  with  great  ones,  commingled 
in  a  medley,  luxuriant  and  delicious,  so 
people  the  memory  of  such  a  pilgrim  that 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  119 

all  his  walks  will  be  haunted.     The  London 
of  to-day,  to  be  sure  (as  may  be  seen  in 
Macaulay's  famous  third   chapter,  and  in 
Scott's   Fortunes  of  Nigel),  is  very  little 
like  even  the  London  of  Charles  the  Sec- 
ond,  when  the   great  fire  had    destroyed 
eighty-nine  churches  and  thirteen  thousand 
houses,    and  when  what    is    now  Regent 
Street  was  a  rural  solitude  in  which  sports- 
men sometimes  shot  the  woodcock.    Yet, 
though  much  of  the  old  capital  has  vanished 
and  more  of  it  has  been  changed,  many 
remnants   of   its   historic  past   exist,    and 
many  of  its  streets  and  houses  are  fraught 
with  a  delightful,  romantic  interest.     It  is 
not  forgotten  that   sometimes   the   charm 
resides  in  the  eyes  that  see,  quite  as  much 
as  in  the  object  that  is  seen.     The  storied 
spots  of  London  may  not  be  appreciable  by 
ail  who  look  upon  them  every  day.     The 
cab-drivers   in  the   region   of    Kensington 
Palace  Koad  may  neither  regard,  nor  even 
notice,  the  house  in  which  Thackeray  lived 
and  died.     The  shop-keepers  of  old  Bond 
Street  may,  perhaps,  neither  care  nor  know 
that  in  this  famous  avenue  was  enacted  the 
woful  death-scene  of  Laurence  Sterne.    The 
Bow  Street   runners  are  quite  unlikely  to 
think  of  Will's  Coffee  House,  and  Dry  den, 


120  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

or  Button's,  and  Addison,  as  they  pass  the 
sites  of  those  vanished  haunts  of  wit  and 
revelry  in  the  days  of  Queen  Anne.  The 
fashionable  lounger  through  Berkeley 
Square,  when  perchance  he  pauses  at  the 
corner  of  Bruton  Street,  will  not  discern 
Colley  Cibber,  in  wig  and  ruffles,  standing 
at  the  parlour  window  and  drumming  with 
his  hands  on  the  frame.  The  casual  pas- 
senger, halting  at  the  Tavistock,  will  not 
remember  that  this  was  once  Macklin's 
Ordinary,  and  so  conjure  up  the  iron  visage 
and  ferocious  aspect  of  the  first  great  Shy- 
lock  of  the  British  stage,  formally  obsequi- 
ous to  his  guests,  or  striving  to  edify  them, 
despite  the  banter  of  the  volatile  Foote, 
with  discourse  upon  ' '  the  Causes  of  Duel- 
ling in  Ireland."  The  Barbican  does  not 
to  every  one  summon  the  austere  memory 
of  Milton  ;  nor  Holborn  raise  the  melan- 
choly shade  of  Chatterton  ;  nor  Tower  Hill 
arouse  the  gloomy  ghost  of  Otway ;  nor 
Hampstead  lure  forth  the  sunny  figure  of 
Steele  and  the  passionate  face  of  Keats  ; 
nor  old  Northampton  Street  suggest  the 
burly  presence  of  ' '  rare  Ben  Jonson  ' '  ; 
nor  opulent  Kensington  revive  the  stately 
head  of  Addison  ;  nor  a  certain  window  in 
Wellington  Street  reveal  in  fancy's  picture 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  121 

the  rugged  lineaments  and  splendid  eyes  of 
Dickens.  Yet  London  never  disappoints ; 
and  for  him  who  knows  and  feels  its  his- 
tory these  associations,  and  hundreds  like 
to  these,  make  it  populous  with  noble  or 
strange  or  pathetic  figures,  and  diversify 
the  aspect  of  its  vital  present  with  pictures 
of  an  equally  vital  past.  Such  a  wanderer 
discovers  that  in  this  vast  capital  there  is 
literally  no  end  to  the  themes  that  are  to 
stir  his  imagination,  touch  his  heart,  and 
broaden  his  mind.  Soothed  already  by  the 
equable  English  climate  and  the  lovely 
English  scenery,  he  is  aware  now  of  an 
influence  in  the  solid  English  city  that 
turns  his  intellectual  life  to  perfect  tranquil- 
lity. He  stands  amid  achievements  that  are 
finished,  careers  that  are  consummated, 
great  deeds  that  are  done,  great  memories 
that  are  immortal ;  he  views  and  compre- 
hends the  sum  of  all  that  is  possible  to 
human  thought,  passion,  and  labour ;  and 
then,  —  high  over  mighty  London,  above  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  cathedral,  piercing  the 
clouds,  greeting  the  sun,  drawing  into  it- 
self all  the  tremendous  life  of  the  great  city 
and  all  the  meaning  of  its  past  and  present, 
—  the  golden  cross  of  Christ  1 


122  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 


XII. 

Shakespeare's  home. 

IT  is  the  everlasting  glory  of  Stratford- 
upon-Avon  that  it  was  the  birthplace 
of  Shakespeare.  Situated  in  the  heart  of 
Warwickshire,  which  has  been  called  "the 
garden  of  England,"  it  nestles  cosily  in  an 
atmosphere  of  tranquil  loveliness  and  is 
surrounded  with  everything  that  soft  and 
gentle  rural  scenery  can  provide  to  soothe 
the  mind  and  to  nurture  contentment. 
It  stands  upon  a  plain,  almost  in  the 
centre  of  the  island,  through  which,  be- 
tween the  low  green  hills  that  roll  away  on 
either  side,  the  Avon  flows  downward  to 
the  Severn.  The  country  in  its  neighbour- 
hood is  under  perfect  cultivation,  and  for 
many  miles  around  presents  the  appearance 
of  a  superbly  appointed  park.  Portions  of 
the  land  are  devoted  to  crops  and  pasture  ; 
other  portions  are  thickly  wooded  with  oak, 
elm,  willow,  and  chestnut ;  the  meadows 
are  intersected  by  hedges  of  fragrant  haw- 


Shakespeare's  home.  123 

thorn,  and  the  region  smiles  with  flowers. 
Old  manor-houses,  half-hidden  among  the 
trees,  and  thatched  cottages  embowered 
with  roses  are  sprinkled  through  the  sur- 
rounding landscape  ;  and  all  the  roads  that 
converge  upon  this  point  —  from  Birming- 
ham, Warwick,  Shipton,  Bidforcl,  Alcester, 
Evesham,  Worcester,  and  other  contiguous 
towns  —  wind,  in  sun  and  shadow,  through 
a  sod  of  green  velvet,  swept  by  the  cool, 
sweet  winds  of  the  English  summer.  Such 
felicities  of  situation  and  such  accessories 
of  beauty,  however,  are  not  unusual  in 
England ;  and  Stratford,  were  it  not  hal- 
lowed by  association,  though  it  would  always 
hold  a  place  among  the  pleasant  memories 
of  the  traveller,  would  not  have  become  a 
shrine  for  the  homage  of  the  world.  To 
Shakespeare  it  owes  its  renown ;  from 
Shakespeare  it  derives  the  bulk  of  its  pros- 
perity. To  visit  Stratford  is  to  tread  with 
affectionate  veneration  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  poet.  To  write  about  Stratford  is  to 
write  about  Shakespeare. 

More  than  three  hundred  years  have 
passed  since  the  birth  of  that  colossal 
genius  and  many  changes  have  occurred 
in  his  native  town  within  that  period.  The 
Stratford  of  Shakespeare's  time  was  built 


124  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

principally  of  timber,  and  it  contained  about 
fourteen  hundred  inhabitants.  To-day  its 
population  numbers  more  than  eight  thou- 
sand. New  dwellings  have  arisen  where 
once  were  fields  of  wheat,  glorious  with 
the  shimmering  lustre  of  the  scarlet  poppy. 
Many  of  the  older  buildings  have  been 
altered.  Manufacture  has  been  stimulated 
into  prosperous  activity.  The  Avon  has 
been  spanned  by  a  new  bridge,  of  iron  —  a 
path  for  pedestrians,  adjacent  to  Clopton's 
bridge  of  stone.  (The  iron  bridge  was 
opened  November  23,  1827.  The  Clopton 
Bridge  was  376  yards  long  and  about  16 
yards  wide.  Alterations  of  the  west  end 
of  it  were  made  in  1814.)  The  streets  have 
been  levelled,  swept,  rolled  and  garnished 
till  they  look  like  a  Flemish  drawing  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  Even  the  Shakespeare  cot- 
tage, the  old  Harvard  house  in  High  Street, 
and  the  two  old  churches  —  authentic  and 
splendid  memorials  of  a  distant  and  storied 
past  —  have  been  "restored."  If  the  poet 
could  walk  again  through  his  accustomed 
haunts,  though  he  would  see  the  same  smil- 
ing country  round  about,  and  hear,  as  of 
old,  the  ripple  of  the  Avon  murmuring  in 
its  summer  sleep,  his  eyes  would  rest  on 
but  few  objects  that  once  he  knew.    Yet* 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 25 

there  are  the  paths  that  Shakespeare  often 
trod ;  there  stands  the  house  in  which  he 
was  born  ;  there  is  the  school  in  which  he 
was  taught ;  there  is  the  cottage  in  which 
he  wooed  his  sweetheart ;  there  are  the 
traces  and  relics  of  the  mansion  in  which 
he  died  ;  and  there  is  the  church  that  keeps 
his  dust,  so  consecrated  by  the  reverence  of 
mankind 

"That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to 
die." 

In  shape  the  town  of  Stratford  somewhat 
resembles  a  large  cross,  which  is  formed  by 
High  Street,  running  nearly  north  and  south, 
and  Bridge  Street  and  Wood  Street,  running 
nearly  east  and  west.  From  these,  which 
are  main  avenues,  radiate  many  and  devious 
branches.  A  few  of  the  streets  are  broad 
and  straight  but  many  of  them  are  narrow 
and  crooked.  High  and  Bridge  Streets 
intersect  each  other  at  the  centre  of  the 
town,  and  there  stands  the  market  house, 
an  ugly  building,  of  the  period  of  George 
the  Fourth,  with  belfry  and  illuminated 
clock,  facing  eastward  toward  the  old  stone 
bridge,  with  fourteen  arches,  —  the  bridge 
that  Sir  Hugh  Clopton  built  across  the 
Avon,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh. 


126  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

A  cross  once  stood  at  the  corner  of  High 
Street  and  Wood  Street,  and  near  the  cross 
was  a  pump  and  a  well.  From  that  central 
point  a  few  steps  will  hring  the  traveller  to 
the  birthplace  of  Shakespeare.  It  is  a  little, 
two-story  cottage  of  timber  and  plaster,  on 
the  north  side  of  Henley  Street,  in  the 
western  part  of  the  town.  It  must  have 
been,  in  its  pristine  days,  finer  than  most 
of  the  dwellings  in  its  neighbourhood.  The 
one-story  house,  with  attic  windows,  was 
the  almost  invariable  fashion  of  building, 
in  English  country  towns,  till  the  seven- 
teenth century.  This  cottage,  besides  its 
two  stories,  had  dormer-windows,  a  pent- 
house over  its  door,  and  altogether  was 
built  and  appointed  in  a  manner  both  luxu- 
rious and  substantial.  Its  age  is  unknown ; 
but  the  history  of  Stratford  reaches  back 
to  a  period  three  hundred  years  antecedent 
to  William  the  Conqueror,  and  fancy,  there- 
fore, is  allowed  ample  room  to  magnify  its 
antiquity.  It  was  bought,  or  occupied,  by 
Shakespeare's  father  in  1555,  and  in  it  he 
resided  till  his  death,  in  1601,  when  it  de- 
scended by  inheritance  to  the  poet.  Such 
is  the  substance  of  the  complex  documen- 
tary evidence  and  of  the  emphatic  tradition 
that  consecrate  this  cottage  as  the  house  in 


Shakespeare's  home.  127 

which  Shakespeare  was  born.  The  point 
has  never  been  absolutely  settled.  John 
Shakespeare,  the  father,  was  the  owner  in 
1564  not  only  of  the  house  in  Henley  Street 
but  of  another  in  Greenhill  Street.  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare  might  have  been  born 
at  either  of  those  dwellings.  Tradition, 
however,  has  sanctified  the  Henley  Street 
cottage  ;  and  this,  accordingly,  as  Shake- 
speare's cradle,  will  be  piously  guarded  to 
a  late  posterity. 

It  has  already  survived  serious  perils  and 
vicissitudes.  By  Shakespeare's  will  it  was 
bequeathed  to  his  sister  Joan  —  Mrs.  William 
Hart  —  to  be  held  by  her,  under  the  yearly 
rent  of  twelvepence,  during  her  life,  and  at 
her  death  to  revert  to  his  daughter  Susanna 
and  her  descendants.  His  sister  Joan  ap- 
pears to  have  been  living  there  at  the  time 
of  his  decease,  in  1616.  She  is  known  to 
have  been  living  there  in  1639  —  twenty -three 
years  later,  —  and  doubtless  she  resided 
there  till  her  death,  in  1646.  The  estate 
then  passed  to  Susanna  —  Mrs.  John  Hall, 
—  from  whom  in  1649  it  descended  to  her 
grandchild,  Lady  Barnard,  who  left  it  to 
her  kinsmen,  Thomas  and  George  Hart, 
grandsons  of  Joan.  In  this  line  of  descent 
it   continued  —  subject  to  many   of  those 


128  SHAKESPEARE'S  HOME. 

infringements  which  are  incidental  to  pov- 
erty —  till  1806,  when  William  Shakespeare 
Hart,  the  seventh  in  collateral  kinship  from 
the  poet,  sold  it  to  Thomas  Court,  from 
whose  family  it  was  at  last  purchased  for 
the  British  nation.  Meantime  the  property, 
which  originally  consisted  of  two  tenements 
and  a  considerable  tract  of  adjacent  land, 
had,  little  by  little,  been  curtailed  of  its 
fair  proportions  by  the  sale  of  its  gardens 
and  orchards.  The  two  tenements  —  two 
in  one,  that  is  —  had  been  subdivided.  A 
part  of  the  building  became  an  inn  —  at 
first  called  "The  Maidenhead,"  afterward 
"  The  Swan,"  and  finally  "  The  Swan  and 
Maidenhead."  Another  part  became  a 
butcher's  shop.  The  old  dormer  windows 
and  the  pent-house  disappeared.  A  new 
brick  casing  was  foisted  upon  the  tavern 
end  of  the  structure.  In  front  of  the 
butcher's  shop  appeared  a  sign  announc- 
ing "  William  Shakespeare  was  born  in  this 
house :  N.B.  —  A  Horse  and  Taxed  Cart  to 
Let."  Still  later  appeared  another  legend, 
vouching  that  "the  immortal  Shakespeare 
was  born  in  this  house."  From  1793  till 
1820  Thomas  and  Mary  Hornby,  connections 
by  marriage  with  the  Harts,  lived  in  the 
Shakespeare  cottage  —  now  at  length  become 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 29 

the  resort  of  literary  pilgrims,  —  and  Mary- 
Hornby,  who  set  up  to  be  a  poet  and  wrote 
tragedy,  comedy,  and  philosophy,  took  de- 
light in  exhibiting  its  rooms  to  visitors. 
During  the  reign  of  that  eccentric  custodian 
the  low  ceilings  and  whitewashed  walls  of 
its  several  chambers  became  covered  with 
autographs,  scrawled  thereon  by  many  en- 
thusiasts, including  some  of  the  most  famous 
persons  in  Europe.     In  1820  Mary  Hornby 
was  requested  to  leave  the  premises.     She 
did  not  wish  to  go.     She  could  not  endure 
the  thought  of  a  successor.      "After  me, 
the  deluge  ! "    She  was  obliged  to  abdicate  ; 
but  she  conveyed  away  all  the  furniture  and 
relics  alleged  to  be  connected  with  Shake- 
speare's family,  and  she  hastily  whitewashed 
the  cottage  walls.     Only  a  small  part  of  the 
wall   of  the  upper  room,   the  chamber  in 
which   "nature's    darling"    first    saw  the 
light,  escaped  this  act  of  spiteful  sacrilege. 
On  the  space  behind  its  door  may  still  be 
read  many  names,  with  dates  affixed,  rang- 
ing back  from  1820  to  1729.     Among  them 
is  that  of  Dora  Jordan,  the  beautiful  and 
fascinating  actress,  who  wrote  it  there  June 
2,  1809.    Much  of  Mary  Hornby's  white- 
wash, which  chanced  to  be  unsized,   was 
afterward  removed,  so  that  her  work  of  ob- 

i 


130  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

literation  proved  only  in  part  successful. 
Other  names  have  been  added  to  this  singu- 
lar, chaotic  scroll  of  worship.  Byron,  Scott,1 
Rogers,  Thackeray,  Kean,  Tennyson,  and 
Dickens  are  among  the  votaries  here  and 
thus  recorded.  The  successors  of  Mary 
Hornby  guarded  their  charge  with  pious 
care.  The  precious  value  of  the  old  Shake- 
speare cottage  grew  more  and  more  evident 
to  the  English  people.  Washington  Irving 
made  his  pilgrimage  to  Stratford  and  re- 
counted it  in  his  beautiful  Sketch-Book. 
Yet  it  was  not  till  P.  T.  Barnum,  from  the 
United  States,  arrived  with  a  proposition  to 
buy  the  Shakespeare  house  and  convey  it 
to  America  that  the  literary  enthusiasm  of 
Great  Britain  was  made  to  take  a  practical 
shape,  and  this  venerated  and  inestimable 
relic  became,  in  1847,  a  national  possession. 
In  1856  John  Shakespeare,  of  Worthing- 
ton  Field,  near  Ashby-de-la-Zouche,  gave  a 
large  sum  of  money  to  restore  it ;  and 
within  the  next  two  years,  under  the  super- 

1  Sir  Walter  Scott  visited  Shakespeare's  birthplace 
in  August,  1821,  and  at  that  time  scratched  his  name 
on  the  window-pane.  He  had  previously,  in  1815, 
Visited  Kenilworth.  He  was  in  Stratford  again  in 
1828,  and  on  April  8  he  went  to  Shakespeare's  grave, 
and  subsequently  drove  to  Charlecote.  The  visit  of 
Lord  Byron  has  been  incorrectly  assigned  to  the  year 
1S16.    It  occurred  on  August  28,  possibly  in  1812. 


Shakespeare's  home.  131 

intendence  of  Edward  Gibbs  and  "William 
Holtom  of  Stratford,  it  was  isolated  by  the 
demolition  of  the  cottages  at  its  sides  and 
in  the  rear,  repaired  wherever  decay  was 
visible,  and  set  in  perfect  order. 

The  builders  of  this  house  must  have 
done  their  work  thoroughly  well,  for  even 
after  all  these  years  of  rough  usage  and  of 
slow  but  incessant  decline  the  great  timbers 
remain  solid,  the  plastered  walls  are  firm, 
the  huge  chimney-stack  is  as  permanent  as 
a  rock,  and  the  ancient  flooring  only  betrays 
by  the  channelled  aspect  of  its  boards,  and 
the  high  polish  on  the  heads  of  the  nails 
which  fasten  them  down,  that  it  belongs  to 
a  period  of  remote  antiquity.  The  cottage 
stands  close  upon  the  margin  of  the  street, 
according  to  ancient  custom  of  building 
throughout  Stratford ;  and,  entering  through 
a  little  porch,  the  pilgrim  stands  at  once  in 
that  low-ceiled,  flag-stoned  room,  with  its 
wide  fire-place,  so  familiar  in  prints  of  the 
chimney-corner  of  Shakespeare's  youthful 
days.  Within  the  fire-place,  on  either  side, 
is  a  seat  fashioned  in  the  brick-work ;  and 
here,  as  it  is  pleasant  to  imagine,  the  boy- 
poet  often  sat,  on  winter  nights,  gazing 
dreamily  into  the  flames,  and  building  castles 
in  that  fairy -land  of  fancy  which  was  his 


132  SHAKESPEARE'S  HOME. 

celestial  inheritance.  You  presently  pass 
from  this  room  by  a  narrow,  well-worn  stair- 
case to  the  chamber  above,  which  is  shown 
as  the  place  of  the  poet's  birth.  An  anti- 
quated chair,  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
stands  in  the  right-hand  corner.  At  the 
left  is  a  small  fire-place.  Around  the  walls 
are  visible  the  great  beams  which  are  the 
framework  of  the  building  —  beams  of 
seasoned  oak  that  will  last  forever.  Oppo- 
site to  the  door  of  entrance  is  a  threefold 
casement  (the  original  window)  full  of 
narrow  panes  of  glass  scrawled  all  over 
with  names  that  their  worshipful  owners 
have  written  with  diamonds.  The  ceiling 
is  so  low  that  you  can  easily  touch  it  with 
uplifted  hand.  A  portion  of  it  is  held  in 
place  by  a  network  of  little  iron  laths. 
This  room,  and  indeed  the  whole  struct- 
ure, is  as  polished  and  orderly  as  any 
waxen,  royal  hall  in  the  Louvre,  and  it 
impresses  observation  much  like  old  lace 
that  has  been  treasured  up  with  lavender 
or  jasmine.  These  walls,  which  no  one  is 
now  permitted  to  mar,  were  naturally  the 
favourite  scroll  of  the  Shakespeare  votaries 
of  long  ago.  Every  inch  of  the  plaster  bears 
marks  of  the  pencil  of  reverence.  Hundreds 
of  names  are  written  there  —  some  of  them 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 33 

famous  but  most  of  them  obscure,  and  all 
destined  to  perish  where  they  stand.  On 
the  chimney-piece  at  the  right  of  the  fire- 
place, which  is  named  "  The  Actor's  Pillar," 
many  actors  have  inscribed  their  signa- 
tures. Edmund  Kean  wrote  his  name 
there  —  with  what  soulful  veneration  and 
spiritual  sympathy  it  is  awful  even  to  try 
to  imagine.  Sir  Walter  Scott's  name  is 
scratched  with  a  diamond  on  the  window 
—  "Wo  Scott."  That  of  Thackeray  ap- 
pears on  the  ceiling,  and  upon  the  beam 
across  the  centre  is  that  of  Helen  Faucit. 
Vestris's  is  written  near  the  fireplace.  Mark 
Lemon  and  Charles  Dickens  are  together  on 
the  opposite  wall.  Byron  wrote  his  name 
there,  but  it  has  disappeared.  The  list 
would  include,  among  others,  Elliston,  Buck- 
stone,  G.  V.  Brooke,  Charles  Kean,  Charles 
Mathews,  Eliza  Vestris,  and  Fanny  Fitz- 
william.  But  it  is  not  of  these  offerings 
of  fealty  that  you  think  when  you  sit  and 
muse  alone  in  that  mysterious  chamber. 
As  once  again  I  conjure  up  that  strange 
and  solemn  scene,  the  sunshine  rests  in 
checkered  squares  upon  the  ancient  floor, 
the  motes  swim  in  the  sunbeams,  the 
air  is  very  cold,  the  place  is  hushed  as 
death,  and  over  it  all  there  broods  an  at- 


134  SHAKESPEARE'S    HOME. 

mosphere  of  grave  suspense  and  mystical 
desolation  —  a  sense  of  some  tremendous 
energy  stricken  dumb  and  frozen  into  silence 
and  past  and  gone  forever. 

Opposite  to  the  birthchamber,  at  the  rear, 
there  is  a  small  apartment,  in  which  is  dis- 
played ' '  the  Stratford  Portrait ' '  of  the  poet. 
This  painting  is  said  to  have  been  owned  by 
the  Clopton  family,  and  to  have  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  William  Hunt,  the  town  clerk 
of  Stratford,  who  bought  the  mansion  of  the 
Cloptons  in  1758.  The  adventures  through 
which  it  passed  can  only  be  conjectured.  It 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  valued,  and  al- 
though it  remained  in  the  house  it  was  cast 
away  among  lumber  and  rubbish.  In  pro- 
cess of  time  it  was  painted  over  and  changed 
into  a  different  subject.  Then  it  fell  a  prey 
to  dirt  and  damp.  There  is  a  story  that 
little  boys  of  the  tribe  of  Hunt  were  accus- 
tomed to  use  it  as  a  target  for  their  arrows. 
At  last,  after  the  lapse  of  a  century,  the 
grandson  of  William  Hunt  showed  it  by 
chance  to  Simon  Collins,  an  artist,  who 
surmised  that  a  valuable  portrait  might 
perhaps  exist  beneath  its  muddy  surface. 
It  was  carefully  cleaned.  A  thick  beard 
was  removed,  and  the  face  of  Shakespeare 
emerged  upon  the  canvas.     It  is  not  pre- 


SHAKESPEARE'S    HOME.  1 35 

tended  that  this  portrait  was  painted  in 
Shakespeare's  time.  The  close  resemblance 
that  it  bears, — in  attitude,  dress,  colours, 
and  other  peculiarities,  —  to  the  painted 
bust  of  the  poet  in  Stratford  church  seems 
to  indicate  that  it  is  a  modern  copy  of  that 
work.  Upon  a  brass  plate  affixed  to  it  is 
the  following  inscription :  ' '  This  portrait 
of  Shakespeare,  after  being  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Mr.  William  Oakes  Hunt,  town- 
clerk  of  Stratford,  and  his  family,  for 
upwards  of  a  century,  was  restored  to  its 
original  condition  by  Mr.  Simon  Collins  of 
London,  and,  being  considered  a  portrait 
of  much  interest  and  value,  was  given  by 
Mr.  Hunt  to  the  town  of  Stratford-upon- 
Avon,  to  be  preserved  in  Shakespeare's 
house,  23d  April,  1862."  There,  accord- 
ingly, it  remains,  and  in  association  with 
several  other  dubious  presentments  of  the 
poet,  cheerfully  adds  to  the  mental  con- 
fusion of  the  pilgrim  who  would  form  an 
accurate  ideal  of  Shakespeare's  appear- 
ance. Standing  in  its  presence  it  was 
worth  while  to  reflect  that  there  are  only 
two  authentic  representations  of  Shake- 
speare in  existence  —  the  Droeshout  por- 
trait and  the  Gerard  Jonson  bust.  They 
may  not  be  perfect  works  of  art ;  they  may 


136  Shakespeare's  home. 

not  do  justice  to  the  original ;  but  they 
were  seen  and  accepted  by  persons  to 
whom  Shakespeare  had  been  a  living  com- 
panion. The  bust  was  sanctioned  by  his 
children  ;  the  portrait  was  sanctioned  by 
his  friend  Ben  Jonson,  and  by  his  brother 
actors  Heminge  and  Condell,  who  prefixed 
it,  in  1623,  to  the  first  folio  of  his  works. 
Standing  among  the  relics  that  have  been 
gathered  into  a  museum  in  an  apartment  on 
the  ground-floor  of  the  cottage  it  was  essen- 
tial also  to  remember  how  often  ' '  the  wish 
is  father  to  the  thought ' '  that  sanctifies  the 
uncertain  memorials  of  the  distant  past. 
Several  of  the  most  suggestive  documents, 
though,  which  bear  upon  the  sparse  and 
shadowy  record  of  Shakespeare's  life  are 
preserved  in  this  place.  Here  is  a  deed, 
made  in  1596,  which  proves  that  this  house 
was  his  father's  residence.  Here  is  the 
only  letter  addressed  to  him  that  is  known 
to  exist  —  the  letter  of  Kichard  Quiney 
(1598)  asking  for  the  loan  of  thirty  pounds. 
Here  is  a  declaration  in  a  suit,  in  1604,  to 
recover  the  price  of  some  malt  that  he  had 
sold  to  Philip  Kogers.  Here  is  a  deed,  dated 
1609,  on  which  is  the  autograph  of  his 
brother  Gilbert,  who  represented  him  at 
Stratford  in  his  business  affairs  while  he 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 37 

was  absent  in  London,  and  who,  surviving, 
it  is  dubiously  said,  almost  till  the  period  of 
the  Restoration,  talked,  as  a  very  old  man, 
of  the  poet's  impersonation  of  Adam  in  As 
You  Like  It.  (Possibly  the  reference  of 
this  legend  is  not  to  Gilbert  but  to  a  son 
of  his.  Gilbert  would  have  been  nearly  a 
century  old  when  Charles  the  Second  came 
to  the  throne. )  Here  likewise  is  shown  a 
gold  seal  ring,  found  many  years  ago  in  a 
held  near  Stratford  church,  on  which,  deli- 
cately engraved,  appear  the  letters  W.  S., 
entwined  with  a  true  lovers'  knot.  It  may 
have  belonged  to  Shakespeare.  The  conjec- 
ture is  that  it  did,  and  that,  since  on  the 
last  of  the  three  sheets  which  contain  his 
will  the  word  "seal"  is  stricken  out  and 
the  word  "hand"  substituted,  he  did  not 
seal  that  document  because  he  had  only  just 
then  lost  this  ring.  The  supposition  is,  at 
least,  ingenious.  It  will  not  harm  the  vis- 
itor to  accept  it.  Nor,  as  he  stands  poring 
over  the  ancient,  decrepit  school-desk  which 
has  been  lodged  in  this  museum,  from  the 
grammar-school  in  Church  Street,  will  it 
greatly  tax  his  credulity  to  believe  that  the 
"  shining  morning  face  "  of  the  boy  Shake- 
speare once  looked  down  upon  it  in  the  irk- 
some quest  of  his  "small  Latin  and  less 


I38  SHAKESPEARE'S    HOME. 

Greek."  They  call  it  "Shakespeare's  desk." 
It  is  old,  and  it  is  known  to  have  been  in 
the  school  of  the  guild  three  hundred  years 
ago.  There  are  other  relics,  more  or  less 
indirectly  connected  with  the  great  name 
that  is  here  commemorated.  The  inspec- 
tion of  them  all  would  consume  many 
days  ;  the  description  of  them  would  oc- 
cupy many  pages.  You  write  your  name 
in  the  visitors'  book  at  parting,  and  per- 
haps stroll  forth  into  the  garden  of  the 
cottage,  which  encloses  it  at  the  sides  and 
in  the  rear,  and  there,  beneath  the  leafy 
boughs  of  the  English  lime,  while  your 
footsteps  press  "  the  grassy  carpet  of 
this  plain,"  behold  growing  all  around  you 
the  rosemary,  pansies,  fennel,  columbines, 
rue,  daisies,  and  violets,  which  make  the 
imperishable  garland  on  Ophelia's  grave, 
and  which  are  the  fragrance  of  her  solemn 
and  lovely  memory. 

Thousands  of  times  the  wonder  must 
have  been  expressed  that  while  the  world 
knows  so  much  about  Shakespeare's  mind 
it  should  know  so  little  about  his  life. 
The  date  of  his  birth,  even,  is  established 
by  an  inference.  The  register  of  Stratford 
church  shows  that  he  was  baptised  there 
in   1564,   on   the  26th   of  April.      It  was 


SHAKESPEARE'S    HOME.  I  39 

customary  to  baptise  infants  on  the  third 
day  after  their  birth.  It  is  presumed  that 
the  custom  was  followed  in  this  instance, 
and  hence  it  is  deduced  that  Shakespeare 
was  born  on  April  23 —  a  date  which,  mak- 
ing allowance  for  the  difference  between 
the  old  and  new  styles  of  reckoning  time, 
corresponds  to  our  third  of  May.  Equally 
by  an  inference  it  is  established  that  the 
boy  was  educated  in  the  free  grammar- 
school.  The  school  was  there ;  and  any 
boy  of  the  town,  who  was  seven  years  old 
and  able  to  read,  could  get  admission  to  it. 
Shakespeare's  father,  an  alderman  of  Strat- 
ford (elected  chief  alderman,  October  10, 
1571),  and  then  a  man  of  worldly  substance, 
though  afterward  he  became  poor,  would 
surely  have  wished  that  his  children  should 
grow  up  in  knowledge.  To  the  ancient 
school-house,  accordingly,  and  the  adjacent 
chapel  of  the  guild  —  which  are  still  extant, 
at  the  south-east  corner  of  Chapel  Lane 
and  Church  Street  —  the  pilgrim  confidently 
traces  the  footsteps  of  the  poet.  These  build- 
ings are  of  singular,  picturesque  quaintness. 
The  chapel  dates  back  to  about  the  middle 
of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  was  a  Roman 
Catholic  institution,  founded  in  1296,  under 
the  patronage  of  the  Bishop  of  Worcester, 


I40  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

and  committed  to  the  pious  custody  of  the 
guild  of  Stratford.  A  hospital  was  con- 
nected with  it  in  those  days,  and  Robert 
de  Stratford  was  its  first  master.  New 
privileges  and  confirmation  were  granted  to 
the  guild  by  Henry  the  Sixth,  in  1403  and 
1429.  The  grammar-school,  established  on 
an  endowment  of  lands  and  tenements  by 
Thomas  Jolyffe,  was  set  up  in  associatior 
with  it  in  1482.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh  the  whole  of 
the  chapel,  excepting  the  chancel,  was  torn 
down  and  rebuilt  under  the  munificent 
direction  of  Sir  Hugh  Clopton,  Lord  Mayor 
of  London  and  Stratford's  chief  citizen  and 
benefactor.  Under  Henry  the  Eighth,  when 
came  the  stormy  times  of  the  Reformation, 
the  priests  were  driven  out,  the  guild  was 
dissolved,  and  the  chapel  was  despoiled. 
Edward  the  Sixth,  however,  granted  a  new 
charter  to  this  ancient  institution,  and  with 
especial  precautions  reinstated  the  school. 
The  chapel  itself  was  occasionally  used  as  a 
schoolroom  when  Shakespeare  was  a  boy, 
and  until  as  late  as  the  year  1595  ;  and  in 
case  the  lad  did  go  thither  (in  1571)  as  a 
pupil,  he  must  have  been  from  childhood 
familiar  with  the  series  of  grotesque  paint- 
ings upon  its  walls,  presenting,  in  a  pictorial 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  I4I 

panorama,  the  history  of  the  Holy  Cross, 
from  its  origin  as  a  tree  at  the  beginning  of 
the  world  to  its  exaltation  at  Jerusalem. 
Those  paintings  were  brought  to  light  in 
1804  in  the  course  of  a  renovation  of  the 
chapel  which  then  occurred,  when  the  walls 
were  relieved  of  thick  coatings  of  whitewash, 
laid  on  them  long  before,  in  Puritan  times, 
either  to  spoil  or  to  hide  from  the  spoiler. 
They  are  not  visible  now,  but  they  were 
copied  and  have  been  engraved.  The 
drawings  of  them,  by  Fisher,  are  in  the 
collection  of  Shakespearean  Rarities  made 
by  J.  O.  Halliwell-Phillipps.  This  chapel 
and  its  contents  constitute  one  of  the  few 
remaining  spectacles  at  Stratford  that  bring 
us  face  to  face  with  Shakespeare.  During 
the  last  seven  years  of  his  life  he  dwelt 
almost  continually  in  his  house  of  New 
Place,  on  the  corner  immediately  oppo- 
site to  this  church.  The  configuration  of 
the  excavated  foundations  of  that  house 
indicates  what  would  now  be  called  a  deep 
bay-window  in  its  southern  front.  There, 
probably,  was  Shakespeare's  study;  and 
through  that  casement,  many  and  many  a 
time,  in  storm  and  in  sunshine,  by  night 
and  by  day,  he  must  have  looked  out  upon 
the  grim,  square  tower,  the  embattled  stone 


142  Shakespeare's  home. 

wall,  and  the  four  tall  Gothic  windows  of 
that  mysterious  temple.  The  moment  your 
gaze  falls  upon  it,  the  low- breathed,  horror- 
stricken  words  of  Lady  Macbeth  murmur 
in  your  memory  :  — 

"  The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements." 

New  Place,  Shakespeare's  home  at  the 
time  of  his  death  and  the  house  in  which 
he  died,  stood  on  the  north-east  corner  of 
Chapel  Street  and  Chapel  Lane.  Nothing 
now  remains  of  it  but  a  portion  of  its  foun- 
dations—  long  buried  in  the  earth,  but 
found  and  exhumed  in  comparatively  recent 
days.  Its  gardens  have  been  redeemed, 
through  the  zealous  and  devoted  exertions 
of  J.  0.  Halliwell-Phillipps  and  have  been 
restored  to  what  is  thought  to  have  been 
almost  their  condition  when  Shakespeare 
owned  them.  The  crumbling  fragments  of 
the  foundation  are  covered  with  screens  of 
wood  and  wire.  A  mulberry-tree,  a  scion 
of  the  famous  mulberry  that  Shakespeare 
is  known  to  have  planted,  is  growing  on  the 
lawn.  There  is  no  authentic  picture  in  ex- 
istence that  shows  New  Place  as  it  was 
when  Shakespeare  left  it,  but  there  is  a  sketch 


SHAKESPEARE'S    HOME.  I43 

of  it  as  it  appeared  in  1740.  The  house  was 
made  of  brick  and  timber,  and  was  built  by 
Sir  Hugh  Clopton  nearly  a  century  before 
it  became  by  purchase  the  property  of  the 
poet.  Shakespeare  bought  it  in  1597,  and 
in  it  he  passed,  intermittently,  a  consider- 
able part  of  the  last  nineteen  years  of  his 
life.  It  had  borne  the  name  of  New  Place 
before  it  came  into  his  possession.  The 
Clopton  family  parted  with  it  in  1563,  and 
it  was  subsequently  owned  by  families 
of  Bott  and  Underbill.  At  Shakespeare's 
death  it  was  inherited  by  his  eldest  daugh- 
ter, Susanna,  wife  to  Dr.  John  Hall.  In 
1643,  Mrs.  Hall,  then  seven  years  a  widow, 
being  still  its  owner  and  occupant,  Henrietta 
Maria,  queen  to  Charles  the  First,  who  had 
come  to  Stratford  with  a  part  of  the  royal 
army,  resided  for  three  days  at  New  Place, 
which,  therefore,  must  even  then  have  been 
the  most  considerable  private  residence  in 
the  town.  (The  queen  arrived  at  Stratford 
on  July  11  and  on  July  13  she  went  to 
Kineton.)  Mrs.  Hall,  dying  in  1649,  aged 
sixty-six,  left  it  to  her  only  child,  Eliza- 
beth, then  Mrs.  Thomas  Nashe,  who  after- 
ward became  Lady  Barnard,  wife  to  Sir  John 
Barnard,  of  Abingdon,  and  in  whom  the  di- 
rect line  of  Shakespeare  ended.     After  her 


144  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

death  the  estate  was  purchased  by  Sir  Ed- 
ward Walker,  in  1675,  who  ultimately  left  it 
to  his  daughter's  husband,  Sir  John  Clopton 
(1638-1719),  and  so  it  once  more  passed  into 
the  hands  of  the  family  of  its  founder.  A  sec- 
ond Sir  Hugh  Clopton  (1671-1751)  owned  it 
at  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
under  his  direction  it  was  repaired,  deco- 
rated, and  furnished  with  a  new  front.  That 
proved  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  this  old 
structure,  as  a  relic  of  Shakespeare  ;  for  this 
owner,  dying  in  1751,  bequeathed  it  to  his 
son-in-law,  Henry  Talbot,  who  in  1753  sold 
it  to  the  most  universally  execrated  icono- 
clast of  modern  times,  the  Rev.  Francis 
Gastrell,  vicar  of  Frodsham,  in  Cheshire, 
by  whom  it  was  destroyed.  Mr.  Gastrell 
was  a  man  of  fortune,  and  he  certainly  was 
one  of  insensibility.  He  knew  little  of 
Shakespeare,  but  he  knew  that  the  frequent 
incursion,  into  his  garden,  of  strangers  who 
came  to  sit  beneath  "Shakespeare's  mul- 
berry "  was  a  troublesome  annoyance.  He 
struck,  therefore,  at  the  root  of  the  vexa- 
tion and  cut  down  the  tree.  That  was  in 
1756.  The  wood  was  purchased  by  Thomas 
Sharp,  a  watchmaker  of  Stratford,  who  sub- 
sequently made  the  solemn  declaration  that 
he  carried  it  to  his  home  and  converted  it 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  I45 

into  toys  and  kindred  memorial  relics.  The 
villagers  of  Stratford,  meantime,  incensed 
at  the  barbarity  of  Mr.  Gastrell,  took  their 
revenge  by  breaking  his  windows.  In  this 
and  in  other  ways  the  clergyman  was  prob- 
ably made  to  realise  his  local  unpopularity. 
It  had  been  his  custom  to  reside  during  a 
part  of  each  year  in  Lichfield,  leaving  some 
of  his  servants  in  charge  of  New  Place. 
The  overseers  of  Stratford,  having  lawful 
authority  to  levy  a  tax,  for  the  maintenance 
of  the  poor,  on  every  house  in  the  town 
valued  at  more  than  forty  shillings  a  year, 
did  not  neglect  to  make  a  vigorous  use  of 
their  privilege  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Gastrell. 
The  result  of  their  exactions  in  the  sacred 
cause  of  charity  was  significant.  In  1759 
Mr.  Gastrell  declared  that  the  house  should 
never  be  taxed  again,  pulled  down  the 
building,  sold  the  materials  of  which  it  had 
been  composed,  and  left  Stratford  forever. 
In  the  house  adjacent  to  the  site  of  what 
was  once  Shakespeare's  home  has  Jbeen 
established  a  museum  of  Shakespearean 
relics.  Among  them  is  a  stone  mullion, 
found  on  the  site,  which  may  have  belonged 
to  a  window  of  the  original  mansion.  This 
estate,  bought  from  different  owners  and 
restored  to  its   Shakespearean    condition, 

K 


I46  SHAKESPEARE'S    HOME. 

became,  on  April  17,  1876,  the  property 
of  the  corporation  of  Stratford.  The  tract 
of  land  is  not  large.  The  visitor  may  trav- 
erse the  whole  of  it  in  a  few  minutes,  al- 
though if  he  obey  his  inclination  he  will 
linger  there  for  hours.  The  enclosure  is 
an  irregular  rectangle,  about  two  hundred 
feet  long.  The  lawn  is  perfect.  The  mul- 
berry is  extant  and  tenacious,  and  wears  its 
honours  in  contented  vigour.  Other  trees 
give  grateful  shade  to  the  grounds,  and  the 
voluptuous  red  roses,  growing  all  around  in 
rich  profusion,  load  the  air  with  fragrance. 
Eastward,  at  a  little  distance,  flows  the 
Avon.  Not  far  away  rises  the  graceful  spire 
of  the  Holy  Trinity.  A  few  rooks,  hovering 
in  the  air  and  wisely  bent  on  some  facetious 
mischief,  send  down  through  the  silver  haze 
of  the  summer  morning  their  sagacious  yet 
melancholy  caw.  The  windows  of  the  gray 
chapel  across  the  street  twinkle  and  keep 
their  solemn  secret.  On  this  spot  was  first 
waved  the  mystic  wand  of  Prospero.  Here 
Ariel  sang  of  dead  men's  bones  turned  into 
pearl  and  coral  in  the  deep  caverns  of  the 
sea.  Here  arose  into  everlasting  life  Her- 
mione,  "  as  tender  as  infancy  and  grace." 
Here  were  created  Miranda  and  Perdita, 
twins  of  heaven's  own  radiant  goodness,  — 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 47 

"  Daffodils 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath." 

To  endeavour  to  touch  upon  the  larger 
and  more  august  aspect  of  Shakespeare's 
life — when,  as  his  wonderful  sonnets  be- 
tray, his  great  heart  had  felt  the  devasta- 
ting blast  of  cruel  passions  and  the  deepest 
knowledge  of  the  good  and  evil  of  the  uni- 
verse had  been  borne  in  upon  his  soul  — 
would  be  impious  presumption.  Happily 
to  the  stroller  in  Stratford  every  association 
connected  with  him  is  gentle  and  tender. 
His  image,  as  it  rises  there,  is  of  smiling 
boyhood  or  sedate  and  benignant  maturity; 
always  either  joyous  or  serene,  never  pas- 
sionate, or  turbulent,  or  dark.  The  pilgrim 
thinks  of  him  as  a  happy  child  at  his  father's 
fireside ;  as  a  wondering  school-boy  in  the 
quiet,  venerable  close  of  the  old  guild 
chapel,  where  still  the  only  sound  that 
breaks  the  silence  is  the  chirp  of  birds  or 
the  creaking  of  the  church  vane  ;  as  a  hand- 
some, dauntless  youth,  sporting  by  his  be- 
loved river  or  roaming  through  field  and 
forest  many  miles  around  ;  as  the  bold,  ad- 
venturous spirit,  bent  on  frolic  and  mischief, 


I48  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME 

and  not  averse  to  danger,  leading,  perhaps, 
the  wild  lads  of  his  village  in  their  poaching 
depredations  on  the  chace  of  Charlecote  ;  as 
the  lover,  strolling  through  the  green  lanes 
of  Shottery,  hand  in  hand  with  the  darling 
of  his  first  love,  while  round  them  the 
honeysuckle  breathed  out  its  fragrant  heart 
upon  the  winds  of  night,  and  overhead  the 
moonlight,  streaming  through  rifts  of  elm 
and  poplar,  fell  on  their  pathway  in  showers 
of  shimmering  silver;  and,  last  of  all,  as  the 
illustrious  poet,  rooted  and  secure  in  his 
massive  and  shining  fame,  loved  by  many, 
and  venerated  and  mourned  by  all,  borne 
slowly  through  Stratford  churchyard,  while 
the  golden  bells  were  tolled  in  sorrow  and 
the  mourning  lime-trees  dropped  their  blos- 
soms on  his  bier,  to  the  place  of  his  eternal 
rest.  Through  all  the  scenes  incidental  to 
this  experience  the  worshipper  of  Shake- 
speare's genius  may  follow  him  every  step 
of  the  way.  The  old  foot-path  across  the 
fields  to  Shottery  remains  accessible.  Wild- 
flowers  are  blooming  along  its  margin.  The 
gardens  and  meadows  through  which  it 
winds  are  sprinkled  with  the  gorgeous  scar- 
let of  the  poppy.  The  hamlet  of  Shottery 
is  less  than  a  mile  from  Stratford,  stepping 
toward  the  sunset ;  and  there,  nestled  be- 


Shakespeare's  home.  149 

neath  the  elms,  and  almost  embowered  in 
vines  and  roses,  stands  the  cottage  in  which 
Anne  Hathaway  was  wooed  and  won.  This 
is  even  more  antiquated  in  appearance  than 
the  birthplace  of  Shakespeare,  and  more 
obviously  a  relic  of  the  distant  past.  It  is 
built  of  wood  and  plaster,  ribbed  with  mas- 
sive timbers,  and  covered  with  a  thatch  roof. 
It  fronts  southward,  presenting  its  eastern 
end  to  the  road.  Under  its  eaves,  peeping 
through  embrasures  cut  in  the  thatch,  are 
four  tiny  casements,  round  which  the  ivy 
twines  and  the  roses  wave  softly  in  the 
wind  of  June.  The  western  end  of  the 
structure  is  higher  than  the  eastern,  and 
the  old  building,  originally  divided  into  two 
tenements,  is  now  divided  into  three.  In 
front  of  it  is  a  straggling  garden.  There  is 
a  comfortable  air  of  wildness,  yet  not  of 
neglect,  in  its  appointments  and  surround- 
ings. The  place  is  still  the  abode  of  labour 
and  lowliness.  Entering  its  parlour  you 
see  a  stone  floor,  a  wide  fireplace,  a  broad, 
hospitable  hearth,  with  cosy  chimney-cor- 
ners, and  near  this  an  old  wooden  settle, 
much  decayed  but  still  serviceable,  on 
which  Shakespeare  may  often  have  sat, 
with  Anne  at  his  side.  The  plastered  walls 
of  this  room  here  and  there  reveal  portions 


I50  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

of  an  oak  wainscot.  The  ceiling  is  low. 
This  evidently  was  the  farm-house  of  a  sub- 
stantial yeoman,  in  the  days  of  Henry  the 
Eighth.  The  Hathaways  had  lived  in  Shot- 
tery  for  forty  years  prior  to  Shakespeare's 
marriage.  The  poet,  then  undistinguished, 
had  just  turned  eighteen,  while  his  bride 
was  nearly  twenty-six,  and  it  has  been 
foolishly  said  that  she  acted  ill  in  wedding 
this  boy- lover.  They  were  married  in  No- 
vember, 1582,  and  their  first  child,  Susanna, 
came  in  the  following  May.  Anne  Hatha- 
way must  have  been  a  wonderfully  fasci- 
nating woman,  or  Shakespeare  would  not  so 
have  loved  her ;  and  she  must  have  loved 
him  dearly  —  as  what  woman,  indeed,  could 
help  it  ?  —  or  she  would  not  thus  have 
yielded  to  his  passion.  There  is  direct 
testimony  to  the  beauty  of  his  person ;  and 
in  the  light  afforded  by  his  writings  it  re- 
quires no  extraordinary  penetration  to  con- 
jecture that  his  brilliant  mind,  sparkling 
humour,  tender  fancy,  and  impetuous  spirit 
must  have  made  him,  in  his  youth,  a  para- 
gon of  enchanters.  It  is  not  known  where 
they  lived  during  the  first  years  after  their 
marriage.  Perhaps  in  this  cottage  at  Shot- 
tery.  Perhaps  with  Hamnet  and  Judith 
Sadler,  for  whom  their  twins,  born  in  1585, 


Shakespeare's  home.  151 

were  named  Hamnet  and  Judith.  Her 
father's  house  assuredly  would  have  been 
chosen  for  Anne's  refuge,  when  presently 
(in  1585-86),  Shakespeare  was  obliged  to 
leave  his  wife  and  children,  and  go  away 
to  London  to  seek  his  fortune.  He  did  not 
buy  New  Place  till  1597,  but  it  is  known 
that  in  the  meantime  he  came  to  his  native 
town  once  every  year.  It  was  in  Stratford 
that  his  son  Hamnet  died,  in  1596.  Anne 
and  her  children  probably  had  never  left 
the  town.  They  show  a  bedstead  and  other 
bits  of  furniture,  together  with  certain 
homespun  sheets  of  everlasting  linen,  that 
are  kept  as  heirlooms  in  the  garret  of  the 
Shottery  cottage.  Here  is  the  room  that 
may  often  have  welcomed  the  poet  when  he 
came  home  from  his  labours  in  the  great 
city.  It  is  a  homely  and  humble  place, 
but  the  sight  of  it  makes  the  heart  thrill 
with  a  strange  and  incommunicable  awe. 
You  cannot  wish  to  speak  when  you  are 
standing  there.  You  are  scarcely  conscious 
of  the  low  rustling  of  the  leaves  outside, 
the  far-off  sleepy  murmur  of  the  brook,  or 
the  faint  fragrance  of  woodbine  and  maid- 
en's-blush  that  is  wafted  in  at  the  open 
casement  and  that  swathes  in  nature's  in 
cense  a  memory  sweeter  than  itself. 


I52  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

Associations  may  be  established  by  fable 
as  well  as  by  fact.  There  is  but  little  rea- 
son to  believe  the  legendary  tale,  first  re- 
corded by  Rowe,  that  Shakespeare,  having 
robbed  the  deer-park  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy 
of  Charlecote  (there  was  not  a  park  at 
Charlecote  then,  but  there  was  one  at  Full- 
brooke),  was  so  severely  persecuted  by  that 
magistrate  that  he  was  compelled  to  quit 
Stratford  and  shelter  himself  in  London. 
Yet  the  story  has  twisted  itself  into  all  the 
lives  of  Shakespeare,  and  whether  received 
or  rejected  has  clung  to  the  house  of  Charle- 
cote. That  noble  mansion — a  genuine 
specimen,  despite  a  few  modern  alterations, 
of  the  architecture  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
time  —  is  found  on  the  west  bank  of  the 
Avon,  about  three  miles  north-east  from 
Stratford.  It  is  a  long,  rambling,  three- 
storied  palace  —  as  finely  quaint  as  old 
St.  James's  in  London,  and  not  altogether 
unlike  that  edifice  in  general  character  — 
with  octagon  turrets,  gables,  balustrades, 
Tudor  casements,  and  great  stacks  of  chim- 
neys, so  closed  in  by  elms  of  giant  growth 
that  you  can  scarce  distinguish  it  through 
the  foliage  till  you  are  close  upon  it.  It 
was  erected  in  1558  by  Thomas  Lucy,  who 
in  1578  was  Sheriff  of  Warwickshire,  who 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 53 

was  elected  to  the  Parliaments  of  1571  and 
1584,  and  who  was  knighted  by  Queen 
Elizabeth  in  1565.  The  porch  to  this  build- 
ing was  designed  by  John  of  Padua.  There 
is  a  silly  ballad  in  existence,  idly  attrib- 
uted to  Shakespeare,  which,  it  is  said,  was 
found  affixed  to  Lucy's  gate,  and  gave  him 
great  offence.  He  must  have  been  more 
than  commonly  sensitive  to  low  abuse  if  he 
could  have  been  annoyed  by  such  a  mani- 
festly scurrilous  ebullition  of  the  blackguard 
and  the  blockhead,  —  supposing,  indeed, 
that  he  ever  saw  it.  The  ballad,  proffered 
as  the  work  of  Shakespeare,  is  a  forgery. 
There  is  but  one  existing  reason  to  think 
that  the  poet  ever  cherished  a  grudge  against 
the  Lucy  family,  and  that  is  the  coarse  al- 
lusion to  the  "luces"  which  is  found  in 
the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.  There  was 
apparently,  a  second  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
later  than  the  Sheriff,  who  was  more  of  the 
Puritanic  breed,  while  Shakespeare  evi- 
dently was  a  Cavalier.  It  is  possible  that 
in  a  youthful  frolic  the  poet  may  have 
poached  on  Sheriff  Lucy's  preserves.  Even 
so,  the  affair  was  trivial.  It  is  possible, 
too,  that  in  after  years  he  may  have  had 
reason  to  dislike  the  ultra-Puritanical  neigh- 
bour.    Some  memory  of  the  tradition  will, 


154  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

of  course,  haunt  the  traveller's  thoughts  as 
he  strolls  by  Hatton  Rock  and  through  the 
villages  of  Hampton  and  Charlecote.  But 
this  discordant  recollection  is  soon  smoothed 
away  by  the  peaceful  loveliness  of  the  ram- 
ble— past  aged  hawthorns  that  Shakespeare 
himself  may  have  seen,  and  under  the 
boughs  of  beeches,  limes,  and  drooping 
willows,  where  every  footstep  falls  on  wild- 
flowers,  or  on  a  cool  green  turf  that  is 
softer  than  Indian  silk  and  as  firm  and 
elastic  as  the  sand  of  the  sea-beaten  shore. 
Thought  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  will  not  be 
otherwise  than  kind,  either,  when  the 
stranger  in  Charlecote  church  reads  the 
epitaph  with  which  the  old  knight  com- 
memorated his  wife  :  "  All  the  time  of  her 
Lyfe  a  true  and  faithfull  servant  of  her 
good  God ;  never  detected  of  any  crime  or 
vice  ;  in  religion  most  sound  ;  in  love  to  her 
husband  most  faithfull  and  true.  In  friend- 
ship most  constant.  To  what  in  trust  was 
committed  to  her  most  secret ;  in  wisdom 
excelling;  in  governing  her  House  and  bring- 
ing up  of  Youth  in  the  feare  of  God  that 
did  converse  with  her  most  rare  and  singu- 
lar ;  a  great  maintainer  of  hospitality  ; 
greatly  esteemed  of  her  betters  ;  misliked 
of  none  unless  the  envious.     When  all  is 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 55 

spoken  that  can  be  said,  a  Woman  so  fur- 
nished and  garnished  with  Virtue  as  not  to 
be  bettered,  and  hardly  to  be  equalled  of 
any  ;  as  she  lived  most  virtuously,  so  she 
dyed  most  godly.     Set  down  by  him  that 
best  did  know  what  hath  been  written  to  be 
true.    Thomas  Lucy."    A  narrow  formalist 
he  may  have  been,  and  a  severe  magistrate 
in  his  dealings  with  scapegrace  youths,  and 
perhaps  a  haughty  and  disagreeable  neigh- 
bour ;  but  there   is  a  touch   of  manhood, 
high  feeling,  and  virtuous  and  self-respect- 
ing character  in  those  lines  that  instantly 
wins  the  response  of  sympathy.     If  Shake- 
speare really  shot  the  deer  of  Thomas  Lucy 
the  injured  gentleman  had  a  right  to  feel 
annoyed.     Shakespeare,  boy  or  man,  was 
not  a  saint,  and  those  who  so  account  him 
can  have  read  his  works  to  but  little  pur- 
pose.    He  can  bear  the  full  brunt  of  his 
faults.     He  does  not  need  to  be  canonised. 
The  ramble  to  Charlecote  —  one  of   the 
prettiest  walks   about   Stratford  —  was,   it 
may  surely   be  supposed,  often  taken  by 
Shakespeare.     Many   another  ramble  was 
possible  to  him  and  no  doubt  was  made. 
He  would   cross   the   mill  bridge  (new  in 
1599),  which  spans  the  Avon  a  little  way 
to  the  south  of  the  church.    A  quaint,  sleepy 


156  SHAKESPEARE'S  HOME. 

mill  no  doubt  it  was  —  flecked  with  moss 
and  ivy  —  and  the  gaze  of  Shakespeare 
assuredly  dwelt  on  it  with  pleasure.  His 
footsteps  may  he  traced,  also,  in  fancy,  to 
the  region  of  the  old  college  building,  de- 
molished in  1799,  which  stood  in  the 
southern  part  of  Stratford,  and  was  the 
home  of  his  friend  John  Combe,  factor  of 
Fulke  Greville,  Earl  of  Warwick.  Still 
another  of  his  walks  must  have  tended 
northward  through  Welcombe,  where  he 
was  the  owner  of  land,  to  the  portly  manor 
of  CHopton,  or  to  the  home  of  William, 
nephew  of  John-a- Combe,  which  stood 
where  the  Phillips  mansion  stands  now. 
On  what  is  called  the  "Ancient  House," 
which  stands  on  the  west  side  of  High 
Street,  he  may  often  have  looked,  as  he 
strolled  past  to  the  Red  Horse.  That  pic- 
turesque building,  dated  1596,  survives, 
notwithstanding  some  modern  touches  of 
rehabilitation,  as  a  beautiful  specimen  of 
Tudor  architecture  in  one  at  least  of  its 
most  charming  traits,  the  carved  and  tim- 
ber-crossed gable.  It  is  a  house  of  three 
stories,  containing  parlour,  sitting-room, 
kitchen,  and  several  bedrooms,  besides 
cellars  and  brew- shed ;  and  when  sold  at 
auction,  August  23,  1876,  it  brought  £400. 


Shakespeare's  home.  157 

In  that  house  was  born  the  mother  of  John 
Harvard,  who  founded  Harvard  University. 
There  are  other  dwellings  fully  as  old  in 
Stratford,  but  they  have  been  covered  with 
stucco  and  otherwise  changed.  This  is  a 
genuine  piece  of  antiquity  and  it  vies  with  the 
grammar-school  and  the  hall  of  the  Guild, 
under  the  pent-house  of  which  the  poet  would 
pass  whenever  he  went  abroad  from  New 
Place.  Julius  Shaw,  one  of  the  five  wit- 
nesses to  his  will,  lived  in  the  house  next  to 
the  present  New  Place  Museum,  and  there, 
it  is  reasonable  to  think,  Shakespeare  would 
often  pause,  for  a  word  with  his  friend  and 
neighbour.  In  the  little  streets  by  the 
river-side,  which  are  ancient  and  redolent 
of  the  past,  his  image  seems  steadily  fa- 
miliar. In  Dead  Lane  (once  also  called 
Walker  Street,  now  called  Chapel  Lane)  he 
owned  a  cottage,  bought  of  Walter  Getley 
in  1602,  and  only  destroyed  within  the 
present  century.  These  and  kindred  shreds 
of  fact,  suggesting  the  poet  as  a  living 
man  and  connecting  him,  however  vaguely, 
with  our  everyday  experience,  are  seized 
with  peculiar  zest  by  the  pilgrim  in  Strat- 
ford. Such  a  votary,  for  example,  never 
doubts  that  Shakespeare  was  a  frequenter, 
in  leisure  or  convivial  hours,  of  the  ancient 


158  Shakespeare's  home. 

Red  Horse  inn.  It  stood  there,  in  his  day, 
as  it  stands  now,  on  the  north  side  oi 
Bridge  Street,  westward  from  the  Avon. 
There  are  many  other  taverns  in  the  town 
—  the  Shakespeare,  a  delightful  resort,  the 
Falcon,  the  Rose  and  Crown,  the  old  Red 
Lion,  and  the  Swan's  Nest,  being  a  few 
of  them  —  but  the  Red  Horse  takes  prece- 
dence of  all  its  kindred,  in  the  fascinating 
because  suggestive  attribute  of  antiquity. 
Moreover  it  was  the  Red  Horse  that  har- 
boured Washington  Irving,  the  pioneer  of 
American  worshippers  at  the  shrine  of 
Shakespeare ;  and  the  American  explorer 
of  Stratford  would  cruelly  sacrifice  his 
peace  of  mind  if  he  were  to  repose  under 
any  other  roof.  The  Red  Horse  is  a  ram- 
bling, three-story  building,  entered  through 
an  archway  that  leads  into  a  long,  strag- 
gling yard,  adjacent  to  offices  and  stables. 
On  one  side  of  the  entrance  is  found  the 
smoking-room ;  on  the  other  is  the  coffee- 
room.  Above  are  the  bed-rooms.  It  is 
a  thoroughly  old-fashioned  inn  —  such  a 
one  as  we  may  suppose  the  Boar's  Head 
to  have  been,  in  the  time  of  Prince  Henry  ; 
such  a  one  as  untravelled  Americans  only 
know  in  the  pages  of  Dickens.  The  rooms 
are  furnished  in  neat,  homelike  style,  and 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 59 

their  associations  readily  deck  them  with 
the  fragrant  garlands  of  memory.  When 
Drayton  and  Jonson  came  down  to  visit 
"gentle  Will"  at  Stratford  they  could 
scarcely  have  omitted  to  quaff  the  humming 
ale  of  Warwickshire  in  that  cosy  parlour. 
When  Queen  Henrietta  Maria  was  ensconced 
at  New  Place  the  general  of  the  royal 
forces  quartered  himself  at  the  Red  Horse, 
and  then  doubtless  there  was  enough  and 
to  spare  of  revelry  within  its  walls.  A 
little  later  the  old  house  was  soundly  pep- 
pered by  Roundhead  bullets  and  the  whole 
town  was  overrun  with  the  close- cropped, 
psalm-singing  soldiers  of  the  Common- 
wealth. In  1742  Garrick  and  Macklin 
lodged  in  the  Red  Horse,  and  thither  again 
came  Garrick  in  1769,  to  direct  the  Shake- 
speare Jubilee,  which  was  then  most  dis- 
mally accomplished  but  which  is  always 
remembered  to  the  great  actor's  credit  and 
honour.  Betterton,  no  doubt,  lodged  there 
when  he  came  to  Stratford  in  quest  of 
reminiscences  of  Shakespeare.  The  visit 
of  Washington  Irving,  supplemented  with 
his  delicious  chronicle,  has  led  to  what 
might  be  called  almost  the  consecration  of 
the  parlour  in  which  he  sat  and  the  chamber 
(No.  15)  in  which  he  slept.     They  still  keep 


160  Shakespeare's  home. 

the  poker  —  now  marked  "Geoffrey  Cray- 
on's sceptre  "  — with  which,  as  he  sat  there 
in  long,  silent,  ecstatic  meditation,  he 
prodded  the  fire  in  the  narrow,  tiny  grate. 
They  keep  also  the  chair  in  which  he  sat  — 
a  plain,  straight-backed  arm-chair,  with  a 
haircloth  seat,  marked,  on  a  brass  plate, 
with  his  renowned  and  treasured  name. 
Thus  genius  can  sanctify  even  the  humblest 
objects, 

"And  shed  a  something  of  celestial  light 
Round  the  familiar  face  of  every  day." 

To  pass  rapidly  in  review  the  little  that 
is  known  of  Shakespeare's  life  is,  neverthe- 
less, to  be  impressed  not  only  by  its  inces- 
sant and  amazing  literary  fertility  but  by 
the  quick  succession  of  its  salient  incidents. 
The  vitality  must  have  been  enormous  that 
created  in  so  short  a  time  such  a  number 
and  variety  of  works  of  the  first  class.  The 
same  "quick  spirit "  would  naturally  have 
kept  in  agitation  all  the  elements  of  his  daily 
experience.  Descended  from  an  ancestor 
who  had  fought  for  the  Red  Rose  on  Bos- 
worth  Field,  he  was  born  to  repute  as  well 
as  competence,  and  during  his  early  child- 
hood he  received  instruction  and  training  in 
a  comfortable  home.    He  escaped  the  plague 


Shakespeare's  home.  161 

that  was  raging  in  Stratford  when  he  was 
an  infant,  and  that  took  many  victims. 
He  went  to  school  when  seven  years  old  and 
left  it  when  about  fourteen.  He  then  had 
to  work  for  his  living — his  once  opulent 
father  having  fallen  into  misfortune  —  and 
he  became  an  apprentice  to  a  butcher,  or 
else  a  lawyer's  clerk  (there  were  seven 
lawyers  in  Stratford  at  that  time),  or  else  a 
school-teacher.  Perhaps  he  was  all  three 
—  and  more.  It  is  conjectured  that  he  saw 
the  players  who  from  time  to  time  acted  in 
the  Guildhall,  under  the  auspices  of  the  cor- 
poration of  Stratford;  that  he  attended  the 
religious  entertainments  that  were  custom- 
arily given  in  the  not  distant  city  of  Coven- 
try; and  that  in  particular  he  witnessed  the 
elaborate  and  sumptuous  pageants  with 
which  in  1575  the  Earl  of  Leicester  welcomed 
Queen  Elizabeth  to  Kenilworth  Castle.  He 
married  at  eighteen ;  and,  leaving  a  wife 
and  three  children  in  Stratford,  he  went  up 
to  London  at  twenty-two.  His  entrance 
into  theatrical  life  followed  —  in  what  ca- 
pacity it  is  impossible  to  say.  One  dubi- 
ous account  says  that  he  held  horses  for  the 
public  at  the  theatre  door ;  another  that  he 
got  employment  as  a  prompter  to  the  actors. 
It  is  certain  that  he  had  not  been  in  the 

L 


1 62  Shakespeare's  home. 

theatrical  business  long  before  he  began  to 
make  himself  known.  At  twenty-eight  he 
was  a  prosperous  author.  At  twenty -nine 
he  had  acted  with  Burbage  before  Queen 
Elizabeth ;  and  while  Spenser  had  ex- 
tolled him  in  the  "  Tears  of  the  Muses," 
the  hostile  Greene  had  disparaged  him  in 
the  "  Groat's- worth  of  Wit."  At  thirty- 
three  he  had  acquired  wealth  enough  to 
purchase  New  Place,  the  principal  residence 
in  his  native  town,  where  now  he  placed  his 
family  and  established  his  home, — himself 
remaining  in  London,  but  visiting  Stratford 
at  frequent  intervals.  At  thirty-four  he 
was  heard  of  as  the  actor  of  Knowell  in 
Ben  Jonson's  comedy  of  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour,1  and  he  received  the  glowing 
encomium  of  Meres  in  WWs  Treasury.  At 
thirty-eight  he  had  written  Hamlet  and  As 
You  Like  It,  and  moreover  he  had  now 
become  the  owner  of  more  estate  in  Strat- 
ford,  costing  him  £320.    At  forty-one  he 

1  Jonson's  famous  comedy  was  first  acted  in 
1598,  "  by  the  then  Lord  Chamberlain  his  servants." 
Knowell  is  designated  as  "  an  old  gentleman."  The 
Jonson  Folio  of  1692  names  as  follows  the  principal 
comedians  who  acted  in  that  piece :  "  Will.  Shake- 
speare. Aug.  Philips.  Hen.  Condel.  Will.  Slye.  Will. 
Kempe.  Ric.  Burbadge.  Joh.  Hemings.  Tho.  Pope. 
Chr.  Beston.  Joh.  Duke." 


Shakespeare's  home.  163 

made  his  largest  purchase,  buying  for  £440 
the  "unexpired  term  of  a  moiety  of  the 
interest  in  a  lease  granted  in  1554  for  ninety- 
two  years  of  the  tithes  of  Stratford,  Bishop- 
ton,  and  Welcombe."  In  the  meantime 
he  had  smoothed  the  declining  years  of  his 
father  and  had  followed  him  with  love  and 
duty  to  the  grave.  Other  domestic  bereave- 
ments likewise  befell  him,  and  other  worldly 
cares  and  duties  were  laid  upon  his  hands, 
but  neither  grief  nor  business  could  check 
the  fertility  of  his  brain.  Within  the  next 
ten  years  he  wrote,  among  other  great  plays, 
Othello,  Lear,  Macbeth,  and  Coriolanus. 
At  about  forty-eight  he  seems  to  have  dis- 
posed of  his  interest  in  the  two  London 
theatres  with  which  he  had  been  connected, 
the  Blackfriars  and  the  Globe,  and  shortly 
afterward,  his  work  as  we  possess  it  being 
well-nigh  completed,  he  retired  finally  to  his 
Stratford  home.  That  he  was  the  comrade 
of  many  bright  spirits  who  glittered  in  "  the 
spacious  times  "  of  Elizabeth  several  of  them 
have  left  personal  testimony.  That  he  was 
the  king  of  them  all  is  shown  in  his  works. 
The  Sonnets  seem  to  disclose  that  there  was 
a  mysterious,  almost  a  tragical,  passage  in 
his  life,  and  that  he  was  called  to  bear  the 
burden  of  a  great  and  perhaps  a  calamitous 


164  SHAKESPEARE'S  HOME. 

personal  grief — one  of  those  griefs,  which, 
being  caused  by  sinful  love,  are  endless  in 
the  punishment  they  entail.  Happily, 
however,  no  antiquarian  student  of  Shake- 
speare's time  has  yet  succeeded  in  coming 
near  to  the  man.  While  he  was  in  London 
he  used  to  frequent  the  Falcon  Tavern,  in 
Southwark,  and  the  Mermaid,  and  he  lived 
at  one  time  in  St.  Helen's  parish,  Alders- 
gate,  and  at  another  time  in  Clink  Street, 
Southwark.  As  an  actor  his  name  has  been 
associated  with  his  characters  of  Adam, 
Friar  Lawrence,  and  the  Ghost  of  King 
Hamlet,  and  a  contemporary  reference  de- 
clared him  "  excellent  in  the  quality  he  pro- 
fesses." Some  of  his  manuscripts,  it  is 
possible,  perished  in  the  fire  that  consumed 
the  Globe  theatre  in  1613.  He  passed  his 
last  days  in  his  home  at  Stratford,  and  died 
there,  somewhat  suddenly,  on  his  fifty-sec- 
ond birthday.  That  event,  it  may  be  worth 
while  to  observe,  occurred  within  thirty- 
three  years  of  the  execution  of  Charles  the 
First,  under  the  Puritan  Commonwealth  of 
Oliver  Cromwell.  The  Puritan  spirit,  intol- 
erant of  the  play-house  and  of  all  its  works, 
must  then  have  been  gaining  formidable 
strength.  His  daughter  Susanna,  aged 
thirty-three  at  the  time  of  his  death,  sur- 


SHAKESPEARE'S  HOME.  1 65 

vived  him  thirty-three  years.  His  daughter 
Judith,  aged  thirty-one  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  survived  him  forty-six  years.  The 
whisper  of  tradition  says  that  both  were 
Puritans.  If  so  the  strange  and  seemingly 
unaccountable  disappearance  of  whatever 
play-house  papers  he  may  have  left  at 
Stratford  should  not  be  obscure.  This  sug- 
gestion is  likely  to  have  been  made  before  ; 
and  also  it  is  likely  to  have  been  supple- 
mented with  a  reference  to  the  great  fire  in 
London  in  1666  —  (which  in  consuming  St. 
Paul's  cathedral  burned  an  immense  quan- 
tity of  books  and  manuscripts  that  had 
been  brought  from  all  the  threatened  parts 
of  the  city  and  heaped  beneath  its  arches  for 
safety)  —  as  probably  the  final  and  effectual 
holocaust  of  almost  every  piece  of  print  or 
writing  that  might  have  served  to  illuminate 
the  history  of  Shakespeare.  In  his  per- 
sonality no  less  than  in  the  fathomless 
resources  of  his  genius  he  baffles  scrutiny 
and  stands  for  ever  alone. 

"  Others  abide  our  question;  thou  art  free: 
We  ask,  and  ask ;  thou  smilest  and  art  still  — 
Out-topping  knowledge." 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  an  adequate 
suggestion  of  the  prodigious  and  overwhelm- 


1 66  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

ing  sense  of  peace  that  falls  upon  the  soul 
of  the  pilgrim  in  Stratford  church.  All  the 
cares  and  struggles  and  trials  of  mortal  life, 
all  its  failures,  and  equally  all  its  achieve- 
ments, seem  there  to  pass  utterly  out  of 
remembrance.  It  is  not  now  an  idle  reflec- 
tion that  ' '  the  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to 
the  grave."  No  power  of  human  thought 
ever  rose  higher  or  went  further  than  the 
thought  of  Shakespeare.  No  human  being, 
using  the  best  weapons  of  intellectual 
achievement,  ever  accomplished  so  much. 
Yet  here  he  lies  —  who  was  once  so  great ! 
And  here  also,  gathered  around  him  in 
death,  lie  his  parents,  his  children,  his  de- 
scendants, and  his  friends.  For  him  and 
for  them  the  struggle  has  long  since  ended. 
Let  no  man  fear  to  tread  the  dark  pathway 
that  Shakespeare  has  trodden  before  him. 
Let  no  man,  standing  at  this  grave,  and 
seeing  and  feeling  that  all  the  vast  labours 
of  that  celestial  genius  end  here  at  last  in 
a  handful  of  dust,  fret  and  grieve  any  more 
over  the  puny  and  evanescent  toils  of  to- 
day, so  soon  to  be  buried  in  oblivion  !  In 
the  simple  performance  of  duty  and  in  the 
life  of  the  affections  there  may  be  perma- 
nence and  solace.  The  rest  is  an  "insub- 
stantial pageant."     It  breaks,   it  changes, 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 67 

it  dies,  it  passes  away,  it  is  forgotten ; 
and  though  a  great  name  be  now  and  then 
for  a  little  while  remembered,  what  can  the 
remembrance  of  mankind  signify  to  him 
who  once  wore  it  ?  Shakespeare,  there  is 
reason  to  believe,  set  precisely  the  right 
value  alike  upon  renown  in  his  time  and 
the  homage  of  posterity.  Though  he  went 
forth,  as  the  stormy  impulses  of  his  nature 
drove  him,  into  the  great  world  of  London, 
and  there  laid  the  firm  hand  of  conquest 
upon  the  spoils  of  wealth  and  power,  he 
came  back  at  last  to  the  peaceful  home  of 
his  childhood ;  he  strove  to  garner  up  the 
comforts  and  everlasting  treasures  of  love 
at  his  hearth-stone  ;  he  sought  an  enduring 
monument  in  the  hearts  of  friends  and  com- 
panions ;  and  so  he  won  for  his  stately 
sepulchre  the  garland  not  alone  of  glory 
but  of  affection.  Through  the  high  eastern 
window  of  the  chancel  of  Holy  Trinity 
church  the  morning  sunshine,  broken  into 
many-coloured  light,  streams  in  upon  the 
grave  of  Shakespeare  and  gilds  his  bust 
upon  the  wall  above  it.  He  lies  close  by 
the  altar,  and  every  circumstance  of  his 
place  of  burial  is  eloquent  of  his  hold  upon 
the  affectionate  esteem  of  his  contempora- 
ries.     The    line    of    graves    beginning    at 


l68  SHAKESPEARE'S  HOME. 

the  north  wall  of  the  chancel  and  extend 
ing  across  to  the  south  seems  devoted  en- 
tirely to  Shakespeare  and  his  family,  with 
but  one  exception.1  The  pavement  that 
covers  them  is  of  that  blue-gray  slate  or 
freestone  which  in  England  is  sometimes 
called  black  marble.  In  the  first  grave 
under  the  north  wall  rests  Shakespeare's 
wife.  The  next  is  that  of  the  poet  himself, 
bearing  the  world-famed  words  of  blessing 
and  imprecation.  Then  comes  the  grave  of 
Thomas  Nashe,  husband  to  Elizabeth  Hall, 
the  poet's  granddaughter,  who  died  April  4, 
1647.  Next  is  that  of  Dr.  John  Hall  (obiit 
November  25,  1635),  husband  to  his  daugh- 
ter Susanna,  and  close  beside  him  rests 
Susanna  herself,  who  was  buried  on  July 
11,  1649.  The  gravestones  are  laid  east 
and  west,  and  all  but  one  present  inscrip- 
tions. That  one  is  under  the  south  wall, 
and  possibly  it  covers  the  dust  of  Judith  — 
Mrs.  Thomas  Quiney  —  the  youngest  daugh- 
ter of  Shakespeare,  who,  surviving  her  three 
children  and  thus  leaving  no  descendants, 
died  in  1662.  Upon  the  gravestone  of  Su- 
sanna an  inscription  has  been  intruded  com- 

1 "  The  poet  knew,"  says  J.  O.  Halliwell-Phillipps, 
"  that  as  a  tithe-owner  be  would  necessarily  be  buried 
in  the  chancel." 


SHAKESPEARE'S    HOME.  1 69 

memorative  of  Richard  Watts,  who  is  not, 
however,  known  to  have  had  any  relationship 
with  either  Shakespeare  or  his  descendants. 
Shakespeare's  father,  who  died  in  1601,  and 
his  mother,  Mary  Arden,  who  died  in  1608, 
were  buried  somewhere  in  this  church.  (The 
register  says,  under  Burials,  "September  9, 
1608,  Mayry  Shaxspere,  wydowe.")  His 
infant  sisters  Joan,  Margaret,  and  Anne, 
and  his  brother  Richard,  who  died,  aged 
thirty- nine,  in  1613,  may  also  have  been 
laid  to  rest  in  this  place.  Of  the  death  and 
burial  of  his  brother  Gilbert  there  is  no 
record.  His  sister  Joan,  the  second  —  Mrs. 
Hart  —  would  naturally  have  been  placed 
with  her  relatives.  His  brother  Edmund, 
dying  in  1607,  aged  twenty-seven,  is  under 
the  pavement  of  St.  Saviour's  church  in 
Southwark.  The  boy  Hamnet,  dying  before 
his  father  had  risen  into  local  eminence, 
rests,  probably,  in  an  undistinguished  grave 
in  the  churchyard.  (The  registry  records 
his  burial  on  August  11, 1596.)  The  family 
of  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  been  short- 
lived and  it  was  soon  extinguished.  He  him- 
self died  at  fifty-two.  Judith's  children  all 
perished  young.  Susanna  bore  but  one 
child  —  Elizabeth  —  who  became  succes- 
sively Mrs.  Nashe  and  Lady  Barnard,  and 


170  Shakespeare's  home. 

she,  dying  in  1670,  was  buried  at  Abingdon, 
near  Oxford.  She  left  no  children  by  either 
husband,  and  in  her  the  race  of  Shakespeare 
became  extinct.  That  of  Anne  Hathaway 
also  has  nearly  disappeared,  the  last  living 
descendant  of  the  Hathaways  being  Mrs. 
Baker,  the  present  occupant  of  Anne's  cot- 
tage at  Shottery.  Thus,  one  by  one,  from 
the  pleasant  gardened  town  of  Stratford, 
they  went  to  take  up  their  long  abode  in 
that  old  church,  which  was  ancient  even  in 
their  infancy,  and  which,  watching  through 
the  centuries  in  its  monastic  solitude  on  the 
shore  of  Avon,  has  seen  their  lands  and 
houses  devastated  by  flood  and  fire,  the 
places  that  knew  them  changed  by  the  tooth 
of  time,  and  almost  all  the  associations  of 
their  lives  obliterated  by  the  improving  hand 
of  destruction. 

One  of  the  oldest  and  most  interesting 
Shakespearean  documents  in  existence  is 
the  narrative,  by  a  traveller  named  Dowdall, 
of  his  observations  in  Warwickshire,  and 
of  his  visit,  on  April  10,  1693,  to  Stratford 
church.  He  describes  therein  the  bust  and 
the  tombstone  of  Shakespeare,  and  he  adds 
these  remarkable  words:  "The  clerk  that 
showed  me  this  church  is  above  eighty  years 
old.     He  says  that  not  one,  for  fear  of  the 


*>o 


SHAKESPEARE  S   HOME.  171 

curse  above  said,  dare  touch  his  gravestone, 
though  his  wife  and  daughter  did  earnestly 
desire  to  be  laid  in  the  same  grave  with 
him."  Writers  in  modern  days  have  been 
pleased  to  disparage  that  inscription  and  to 
conjecture  that  it  was  the  work  of  a  sexton 
and  not  of  the  poet ;  but  no  one  denies  that 
it  has  accomplished  its  purpose  in  preserv- 
ing the  sanctity  of  Shakespeare's  rest.  Its 
rugged  strength,  its  simple  pathos,  its  fit- 
ness, and  its  sincerity  make  it  felt  as  un- 
questionably the  utterance  of  Shakespeare 
himself,  when  it  is  read  upon  the  slab  that 
covers  him.  There  the  musing  traveller  full 
well  conceives  how  dearly  the  poet  must 
have  loved  the  beautiful  scenes  of  his  birth- 
place, and  with  what  intense  longing  he 
must  have  desired  to  sleep  undisturbed  in 
the  most  sacred  spot  in  their  bosom.  He 
doubtless  had  some  premonition  of  his  ap- 
proaching death.  Three  months  before  it 
came  he  made  his  will.  A  little  later  he 
saw  the  marriage  of  his  younger  daughter. 
Within  less  than  a  month  of  his  death  he 
executed  the  will,  and  thus  set  his  affairs 
in  order.  His  handwriting  in  the  three 
signatures  to  that  paper  conspicuously  ex- 
hibits the  uncertainty  and  lassitude  of  shat- 
tered nerves.     He  was  probably  quite  worn 


172  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

out.  Within  the  space,  at  the  utmost,  of 
twenty-five  years,  he  had  written  thirty- 
seven  plays,  one  hundred  and  fifty-four 
sonnets,  and  two  or  more  long  poems  ;  had 
passed  through  much  and  painful  toil  and 
through  bitter  sorrow ;  had  made  his  for- 
tune as  author  and  actor  ;  and  had  superin- 
tended, to  excellent  advantage,  his  property 
in  London  and  his  large  interests  in  Strat- 
ford and  its  neighbourhood.  The  proclama- 
tion of  health  with  which  the  will  begins 
was  doubtless  a  formality  of  legal  custom. 
The  story  that  he  died  of  drinking  too  hard 
at  a  merry  meeting  with  Drayton  and  Ben 
Jonson  is  idle  gossip.  If  in  those  last 
days  of  fatigue  and  presentiment  he  wrote 
the  epitaph  that  has  ever  since  marked  his 
grave,  it  would  naturally  have  taken  the 
plainest  fashion  of  speech.  Such  is  its 
character ;  and  no  pilgrim  to  the  poet's 
shrine  could  wish  to  see  it  changed :  — 

"  Good  frend  for  Iesvs  sake  forbeare, 
To  digg  the  dvst  encloased  heare ; 
Blese  be  ye  man  y*  spares  thes  stones 
And  cvrst  be  he  yl  moves  my  bones." 

It  was  once  surmised  that  the  poet's 
solicitude  lest  his  bones  might  be  disturbed 
in  death  grew  out  of  his  intention  to  take 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 73 

with  him  into  the  grave  a  confession  that 
the  works  which  now  "follow  him  "  were 
written  by  another  hand.  Persons  have 
been  found  who  actually  believe  that  a  man 
who  was  great  enough  to  write  Hamlet 
could  be  little  enough  to  feel  ashamed  of  it, 
and,  accordingly,  that  Shakespeare  was  only 
hired  to  play  at  authorship  as  a  screen  for 
the  actual  author.  It  might  not,  perhaps, 
be  strange  that  a  desire  for  singularity, 
which  is  one  of  the  worst  literary  crazes 
of  this  capricious  age,  should  prompt  to  the 
rejection  of  the  conclusive  and  overwhelm- 
ing testimony  to  Shakespeare's  genius  that 
has  been  left  by  Shakespeare's  contempo- 
raries, and  that  shines  forth  in  all  that  is 
known  of  his  life.  It  is  strange  that  a 
doctrine  should  get  itself  asserted  which  is 
subversive  of  common  reason  and  contra- 
dictory to  every  known  law  of  the  human 
mind.  This  conjectural  confession  of  poetic 
imposture  has  never  been  exhumed.  The 
grave  is  known  to  have  been  disturbed  in 
1796,  when  alterations  were  made  in  the 
church,1  and  there  came  a  time  in  the  pres- 

1  It  was  the  opinion  —  not  conclusive  but  inter- 
esting—  of  the  late  J.  O.  Halliwell-Phillipps  that  at 
one  or  other  of  these  "restorations"  the  original 
tombstone  of  Shakespeare  was    removed  and   an- 


J74  Shakespeare's  home. 

ent  century  when,  as  they  were  making 
repairs  in  the  chancel  pavement  (the  chan- 
cel was  renovated  in  1835),  a  rift  was  ac- 
cidentally made  in  the  Shakespeare  vault. 
Through  this,  though  not  without  misgiv- 
ing, the  sexton  peeped  in  upon  the  poet's 
remains.     He  saw  nothing  but  dust. 

The  antique  font  from  which  the  infant 
Shakespeare  may  have  received  the  water 
of  Christian  baptism  is  still  preserved  in 
this  church.  It  was  thrown  aside  and  re- 
placed by  a  new  one  about  the  middle  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  Many  years  after- 
ward it  was  found  in  the  charnel-house. 
When  that  was  destroyed,  in  1800,  it  was 
cast  into  the  churchyard.  In  later  times  the 
parish  clerk  used  it  as  a  trough  to  his  pump. 
It  passed  then  through  the  hands  of  several 
successive  owners,  till  at  last,  in  days  that 
had  learned  to  value  the  past  and  the  asso- 
ciations connected  with  its  illustrious  names, 

other  one,  from  the  yard  of  a  modern  stone-mason, 
put  in  its  place.  Dr.  Ingleby,  in  his  book  on 
"  Shakespeare's  Bones,"  1883,  asserts  that  the  orig- 
inal stone  was  removed.  I  have  compared  Shake- 
speare's tombstone  with  that  of  his  wife,  and  with 
others  in  the  chancel,  but  I  have  not  found  the  dis- 
crepancy observed  by  Mr.  Halliwell-Phillipps,  and 
I  think  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  the  origi- 
nal tombstone  has  ever  been  disturbed.  The  letters 
upon  it  were,  probably,  cut  deeper  in  1835. 


Shakespeare's  home.  175 

it  found  its  way  back  again  to  the  sanctuary 
from  which  it  had  suffered  such  a  rude  ex- 
pulsion. It  is  still  a  handsome  stone,  though 
broken,  soiled,  and  marred. 

On  the  north  wall  of  the  chancel,  above 
his  grave  and  near  to  "  the  American  win- 
dow," is  placed  Shakespeare's  monument. 
It  is  known  to  have  been  erected  there 
within  seven  years  after  his  death.  It  con- 
sists of  a  half-length  effigy,  placed  beneath 
a  fretted  arch,  with  entablature  and  pedes- 
tal, between  two  Corinthian  columns  of  black 
marble,  gilded  at  base  and  top.  Above  the 
entablature  appear  the  armorial  bearings  of 
Shakespeare  —  a  pointed  spear  on  a  bend 
sable  and  a  silver  falcon  on  a  tasselled  hel- 
met supporting  a  spear.  Over  this  heraldic 
emblem  is  a  death's-head,  and  on  each  side 
of  it  sits  a  carved  cherub,  one  holding  a 
spade,  the  other  an  inverted  torch.  In  front 
of  the  effigy  is  a  cushion,  upon  which  both 
hands  rest,  holding  a  scroll  and  a  pen.  Be- 
neath is  an  inscription  in  Latin  and  English, 
supposed  to  have  been  furnished  by  the  poet's 
son-in-law,  Dr.  Hall.  The  bust  was  cut  by 
Gerard  Jonson,  a  native  of  Amsterdam  and 
by  occupation  a  "tomb-maker,"  who  lived 
in  South  wark  and  possibly  had  seen  the  poet. 
The  material  is  a  soft  stone,  and  the  work, 


I'/6  SHAKESPEARE'S  HOME. 

when  first  set  up,  was  painted  in  the  colours 
of  life.  Its  peculiarities  indicate  that  it  was 
copied  from  a  mask  of  the  features  taken 
after  death.  Some  persons  believe  that  this 
mask  has  since  been  found,  and  busts  of 
Shakespeare  have  been  based  upon  it,  by  W. 
R.  0' Donovan  and  by  William  Page.  In 
September,  1764,  John  Ward,  grandfather  of 
Mrs.  Siddons,  having  come  to  Stratford  with 
a  theatrical  company,  gave  a  performance  of 
Othello,  in  the  Guildhall,  and  devoted  its 
proceeds  to  reparation  of  the  Gerard  Jon- 
son  effigy,  then  somewhat  damaged  by  time. 
The  original  colours  were  then  carefully  re- 
stored and  freshened.  In  1793,  under  the 
direction  of  Malone,  this  bust,  together  with 
the  image  of  John-a-Combe  —  a  recumbent 
statue  upon  a  tomb  close  to  the  east  wall  of 
the  chancel  —  was  coated  with  white  paint. 
From  that  plight  it  was  extricated,  in  1861, 
by  the  assiduous  skill  of  Simon  Collins,  who 
immersed  it  in  a  bath  which  took  off  the 
white  paint  and  restored  the  colours.  The 
eyes  are  painted  light  hazel,  the  hair  and 
pointed  beard  auburn,  the  face  and  hands 
flesh- tint.  The  dress  consists  of  a  scarlet 
doublet,  with  a  rolling  collar,  closely  but- 
toned down  the  front,  worn  under  a  loose 
black  gown  without  sleeves.      The  upper 


SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME.  1 77 

part  of  the  cushion  is  green,  the  lower  part 
crimson,  and  this  object  is  ornamented 
with  gilt  tassels.  The  stone  pen  that  used 
to  be  in  the  right  band  of  the  bust  was 
taken  from  it  toward  the  end  of  the  last 
century  by  a  young  Oxford  student,  and 
being  dropped  by  him  upon  the  pavement 
was  broken.  A  quill  pen  has  been  put  in 
its  place.  This  is  the  inscription  beneath 
the  bust :  — 

Ivdicio  Pylivm,  genio  Socratem,  arte  Maronem, 
Terra  tegit,  popvlvs  maeret,  Olympvs  habet. 

Stay,  passenger,  why  goest  tbov  by  so  fast  ? 
Read,  if  tbov  canst,  whom  enviovs  Death  hath 

plast 
Within  this  monvment:    Shakspeare:   with 

whome 
Qvick  Natvre  dide ;  whose  name  doth  deck  y» 

tombe 
Far  more  than  cost ;  sietb  all  y'  be  bath  writt 
Leaves  living  art  bvt  page  to  serve  bis  witt. 

Obiit  Ano.  Doi.  1616.    ^Etatis  53.  Die.  23.  Ap. 

The  erection  of  the  old  castles,  cathedrals, 
monasteries,  and  churches  of  England  was 
accomplished,  little  by  little,  with  labori- 
ous toil  protracted  through  many  years. 
Stratford  church,  probably  more  than  seven 
centuries  old,  presents  a  mixture  of  archi- 

M 


178  SHAKESPEARE'S    HOME. 

tectural  styles,  in  which  Saxon  simplicity 
and  Norman  grace  are  beautifully  mingled. 
Different  parts  of  the  structure  were  built 
at  different  times.  It  is  fashioned  in  the 
customary  crucial  form,  with  a  square  tower, 
an  octagon  stone  spire,  (erected  in  1764,  to 
replace  a  more  ancient  one,  made  of  oak  and 
covered  with  lead),  and  a  fretted  battlement 
all  around  its  roof.  Its  windows  are  diver- 
sified, but  mostly  Gothic.  The  approach  to 
it  is  across  a  churchyard  thickly  sown  with 
graves,  through  a  lovely  green  avenue  of 
lime-trees,  leading  to  a  porch  on  its  north 
side.  This  avenue  of  foliage  is  said  to  be 
the  copy  of  one  that  existed  there  in  Shake- 
speare's day,  through  which  he  must  often 
have  walked,  and  through  which  at  last  he 
was  carried  to  his  grave.  Time  itself  has 
fallen  asleep  in  this  ancient  place.  The 
low  sob  of  the  organ  only  deepens  the  awful 
sense  of  its  silence  and  its  dreamless  repose. 
Yews  and  elms  grow  in  the  churchyard,  and 
many  a  low  tomb  and  many  a  leaning  stone 
are  there  in  the  shadow,  gray  with  moss  and 
mouldering  with  age.  Birds  have  built  their 
nests  in  many  crevices  in  the  timeworn 
tower,  round  which  at  sunset  you  may  see 
them  circle,  with  chirp  of  greeting  or  with 
call  of  anxious  discontent.     Near  by  flows 


Shakespeare's  home.  179 

the  peaceful  river,  reflecting  the  gray  spire 
in  its  dark,  silent,  shining  waters.  In  the 
long  and  lonesome  meadows  beyond  it  the 
primroses  stand  in  their  golden  ranks  among 
the  clover,  and  the  frilled  and  fluted  bell  of 
the  cowslip,  hiding  its  single  drop  of  blood 
in  its  bosom,  closes  its  petals  as  the  night 
comes  down. 

Northward,  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  stands,  on  the 
west  bank  of  the  Avon,  the  building  that 
will  always  be  famous  as  the  Shakespeare 
Memorial.  The  idea  of  the  Memorial  was 
suggested  in  1864,  incidentally  to  the  cere- 
monies which  then  commemorated  the  three- 
hundredth  anniversary  of  the  poet's  birth. 
Ten  years  later  the  site  for  this  structure 
was  presented  to  the  town  by  Charles 
Edward  Flower,  one  of  its  most  honoured 
inhabitants.  Contributions  of  money  were 
then  asked,  and  were  given.  Americans  as 
well  as  Englishmen  contributed.  On  April 
23,  1877,  the  first  stone  of  the  Memorial 
was  laid.  On  April  23,  1880,  the  building 
was  dedicated.  The  fabric  comprises  a 
theatre,  a  library,  and  a  picture-gallery." 
In  the  theatre  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  are 
annually  represented,  in  a  manner  as  nearly 
perfect  as  possible.      In   the    library    and 


l8o  SHAKESPEARE'S   HOME. 

picture-gallery  are  to  be  assembled  all  the 
books  upon  Shakespeare  that  have  been 
published,  and  all  the  choice  paintings  that 
can  be  obtained  to  illustrate  his  life  and  his 
works.  As  the  years  pass  this  will  natur- 
ally become  a  principal  depository  of  Shake- 
spearean objects.  A  dramatic  college  may 
grow  up,  in  association  with  the  Shakespeare 
theatre.  The  gardens  that  surround  the 
Memorial  will  augment  their  loveliness  in 
added  expanse  of  foliage  and  in  greater 
wealth  of  floral  luxuriance.  The  mellow 
tinge  of  age  will  soften  the  bright  tints  of 
the  red  brick  that  mainly  composes  the 
building.  On  its  cone-shaped  turrets  ivy 
will  clamber  and  moss  will  nestle.  When  a 
few  generations  have  passed,  the  old  town 
of  Stratford  will  have  adopted  this  now 
youthful  stranger  into  the  race  of  her  vener- 
ated antiquities.  The  same  air  of  poetic 
mystery  that  rests  now  upon  his  cottage 
and  his  grave  will  diffuse  itself  around  his 
Memorial ;  and  a  remote  posterity,  looking 
back  to  the  men  and  the  ideas  of  to-day, 
will  remember  with  grateful  pride  that  Eng- 
lish-speaking people  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, although  they  could  confer  no  honour 
upon  the  great  name  of  Shakespeare,  yet 
honoured  themselves  in  consecrating  this 
votive  temple  to  his  memory. 


UP  TO   LONDON.  l8l 


XIII. 

UP   TO    LONDON. 

1882. 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  the  night  the  great 
ship  comes  to  a  pause,  off  the  coast  of 
Ireland,  and,  looking  forth  across  the  black 
waves  and  through  the  rifts  in  the  rising 
mist,  we  see  the  low  and  lonesome  verge  of 
that  land  of  trouble  and  misery.  A  beauti- 
ful white  light  flashes  now  and  then  from 
the  shore,  and  at  intervals  the  mournful 
booming  of  a  solemn  bell  floats  over  the  sea. 
Soon  is  heard  the  rolling  click  of  oars,  and 
then  two  or  three  dusky  boats  glide  past 
the  ship,  and  hoarse  voices  hail  and  answer. 
A  few  stars  are  visible  in  the  hazy  sky,  and 
the  breeze  from  the  land  brings  off,  in  fitful 
puffs,  the  fragrant  balm  of  grass  and  clover, 
mingled  with  the  salt  odours  of  sea-weed 
and  slimy  rocks.  There  is  a  sense  of  mys- 
tery over  the  whole  wild  scene;  but  we 
realise  now  that  human  companionship  is 
near,  and  that  the  long  and  lonely  ocean 
voyage  is  ended. 


1 82  UP  TO   LONDON. 

Travellers  who  make  the  run  from  Liver- 
pool to  London  by  the  Midland  Kail  way- 
pass  through  the  vale  of  Derby  and  skirt 
around  the  stately  Peak  that  Scott  has  com- 
memorated in  his  novel  of  Peveril.  It  is  a 
more  rugged  country  than  is  seen  in  the 
transit  by  the  North- Western  road,  but  not 
more  beautiful.  You  see  the  storied  moun- 
tain, in  its  delicacy  of  outline  and  its  airy 
magnificence  of  poise,  soaring  into  the  sky 
—  its  summit  almost  lost  in  the  smoky 
haze  —  and  you  wind  through  hillside  pas- 
tures and  meadow-lands  that  are  curiously 
intersected  with  low,  zigzag  stone  walls  ; 
and  constantly,  as  the  scene  changes,  you 
catch  glimpses  of  green  lane  and  shining 
river  ;  of  dense  copses  that  cast  their  cool 
shadow  on  the  moist  and  gleaming  emerald 
sod ;  of  long  white  roads  that  stretch  away 
like  cathedral  aisles  and  are  lost  beneath  the 
leafy  arches  of  elm  and  oak ;  of  little  church 
towers  embowered  in  ivy  ;  of  thatched  cot- 
tages draped  with  roses  ;  of  dark  ravines, 
luxuriant  with  a  wild  profusion  of  rocks  and 
trees  ;  and  of  golden  grain  that  softly  waves 
and  whispers  in  the  summer  wind ;  while, 
all  around,  the  grassy  banks  and  glimmering 
meadows  are  radiant  with  yellow  daisies, 
and  with   that  wonderful    scarlet   of    the 


UP   TO   LONDON.  1 83 

poppy  that  gives  an  almost  human  glow 
of  life  and  loveliness  to  the  whole  face  of 
England.  After  some  hours  of  such  a 
pageant — so  novel,  so  fascinating,  so  fleet- 
ing, so  stimulative  of  eager  curiosity  and 
poetic  desire  —  it  is  a  relief  at  last  to  stand 
in  the  populous  streets  and  among  the  grim 
houses  of  London,  with  its  surging  tides  of 
life,  and  its  turmoil  of  effort,  conflict,  exul- 
tation, and  misery.  How  strange  it  seems 
—  yet,  at  the  same  time,  how  homelike  and 
familiar  1  There  soars  aloft  the  great  dome 
of  St.  Paul's  cathedral,  with  its  golden  cross 
that  flashes  in  the  sunset  !  There  stands 
the  Victoria  tower  — fit  emblem  of  the  true 
royalty  of  the  sovereign  whose  name  it 
bears.  And  there,  more  lowly  but  more 
august,  rise  the  sacred  turrets  of  the  Abbey. 
It  is  the  same  old  London  — the  great  heart 
of  the  modern  world  —  the  great  city  of  our 
reverence  and  love.  As  the  wanderer  writes 
these  words  he  hears  the  plashing  of  the 
fountains  in  Trafalgar  Square  and  the  even- 
ing chimes  that  peal  out  from  the  spire  of 
St.  Martin-in-the-Fields,  and  he  knows  him- 
self once  more  at  the  shrine  of  his  youthful 
dreams. 

To  the  observant  stranger  in  London  few 
sights  can  be  more  impressive  than  those 


184  UP   TO   LONDON. 

that  illustrate  the  singular  manner  in  which 
the  life  of  the  present  encroaches  upon 
the  memorials  of  the  past.  Old  Temple 
Bar  has  gone,  —  a  piece  of  sculpture,  at 
the  junction  of  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand, 
denoting  where  once  it  stood.  (It  has  been 
removed  to  Theobald's  Park,  near  Waltham, 
and  is  now  the  lodge  gate  of  the  grounds 
of  Sir  Henry  Meux.)  The  Midland  Railway- 
trains  dash  over  what  was  once  St.  Pan- 
eras  churchyard  —  the  burial-place  of  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  and  William  Godwin,  and 
of  many  other  British  worthies  —  and  pas- 
sengers looking  from  the  carriages  may  see 
the  children  of  the  neighbourhood  sporting 
among  the  few  tombs  that  yet  remain  in 
that  despoiled  cemetery.  Dolly's  Chop- 
House,  intimately  associated  with  the  wits 
of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  has  been  de- 
stroyed. The  ancient  tavern  of  "  The 
Cock,"  immortalised  by  Tennyson,  in  his 
poem  of  "  Will  Waterproof's  Monologue," 
is  soon  to  disappear,  —  with  its  singular 
wooden  vestibule  that  existed  before  the 
time  of  the  Plague  and  that  escaped  the 
great  fire  of  1666.  On  the  site  of  North- 
umberland House  stands  the  Grand  Hotel. 
The  gravestones  that  formerly  paved  the 
precinct  of  Westminster  Abbey  have  been 


UP  TO   LONDON.  1 85 

removed,  to  make  way  for  grassy  lawns 
intersected  with  pathways.  In  Southwark, 
across  the  Thames,  the  engine-room  of  the 
brewery  of  Messrs.  Barclay  &  Perkins  occu- 
pies the  site  of  the  Globe  Theatre,  in  which 
many  of  Shakespeare's  plays  were  first 
produced.  One  of  the  most  venerable  and 
beautiful  churches  in  London,  that  of  St. 
Bartholomew  the  Great,  —  a  gray,  moulder- 
ing temple,  of  the  twelfth  century,  hidden 
away  in  a  corner  of  Smithfield,  —  is  dese- 
crated by  the  irruption  of  an  adjacent  shop, 
the  staircase  hall  of  which  breaks  cruelly 
into  the  sacred  edifice  and  impends  above 
the  altar.  As  lately  as  July  12,  1882,  the 
present  writer,  walking  in  the  churchyard 
of  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden, —  the  sepul- 
chre of  William  Wycherley,  Robert  Wilks, 
Charles  Macklin,  Joseph  Haines,  Thomas 
King,  Samuel  Butler,  Thomas  Southerne, 
Edward  Shuter,  Dr.  Arne,  Thomas  Davies, 
Edward  Kynaston,  Richard  Estcourt,  Wil- 
liam Havard,  and  many  other  renowned 
votaries  of  literature  and  the  stage,  —  found 
workmen  building  a  new  wall  to  sustain 
the  enclosure,  and  almost  every  stone  in  the 
cemetery  uprooted  and  leaning  against  the 
adjacent  houses.  Those  monuments,  it 
was  said,  would  be  replaced ;   but  it  was 


l86  UP   TO   LONDON. 

impossible  not  to  consider  the  chances  of 
error  in  a  new  mortuary  deal  —  and  the 
grim  witticism  of  Rufus  Choate,  about  di- 
lating with  the  wrong  emotion,  came  then 
into  remembrance,  and  did  not  come  amiss. 
Facts  such  as  these,  however,  bid  us  re- 
member that  even  the  relics  of  the  past  are 
passing  away,  and  that  cities,  unlike  human 
creatures,  may  grow  to  be  so  old  that  at  last 
they  will  become  new.  It  is  not  wonderful 
that  London  should  change  its  aspect  from 
one  decade  to  another,  as  the  living  sur- 
mount and  obliterate  the  dead.  Thomas 
Sutton's  Charter- House  School,  founded  in 
1611,  when  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson 
were  still  writing,  was  reared  upon  ground 
in  which  several  thousand  corses  were 
buried,  during  the  time  of  the  Indian  pes- 
tilence of  1348 ;  and  it  still  stands  and 
nourishes  —  though  not  as  vigorously  now 
as  might  be  wished.  Nine  thousand  new 
houses,  it  is  said,  are  built  in  the  great 
capital  every  year,  and  twenty-eight  miles 
of  new  street  are  thus  added  to  it.  On  a 
Sunday  I  drove  for  three  hours  through  the 
eastern  part  of  London  without  coming 
upon  a  single  trace  of  the  open  fields.  On 
the  west,  all  the  region  from  Kensington  to 
Richmond  is  settled  for  most  part  of  the 


UP   TO   LONDON.  187 

way  ;  while  northward  the  city  is  stretching 
its  arms  toward  Hampstead,  Highgate,  and 
tranquil  and  blooming  Finchley.  Truly 
the  spirit  of  this  age  is  in  strong  contrast 
with  that  of  the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth 
when  (1530),  to  prevent  the  increasing  size 
of  London,  all  new  buildings  were  forbidden 
to  be  erected  ' '  where  no  former  hath  been 
known  to  have  been."  The  march  of  im- 
provement nowadays  carries  everything  be- 
fore it :  even  British  conservatism  is  at 
some  points  giving  way :  and,  noting  the 
changes  that  have  occurred  here  within 
only  five  years,  I  am  persuaded  that  those 
who  would  see  what  remains  of  the  London 
of  which  they  have  read  and  dreamed  — 
the  London  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  of  Addi- 
son, Sheridan,  and  Byron,  of  Betterton, 
Garrick,  and  Edmund  Kean  —  will,  as  time 
passes,  find  more  and  more  difficulty  both 
in  tracing  the  footsteps  of  fame,  and  in 
finding  that  sympathetic,  reverent  spirit 
which  hallows  the  relics  of  genius  and  re- 
nown. 

Note.  —  Mary  "Wollstonecraft  and  William  God- 
win are  named  on  page  184.  Their  remains  were 
removed  by  Sir  Percy  Shelley  to  a  churchyard  at 
Bournemouth. 


1 88    OLD  CHURCHES  OF  LONDON. 


XIV. 

OLD   CHURCHES   OF    LONDON. 

SIGHT-SEEING,  merely  for  its  own  sake, 
is  not  to  be  commended.  Hundreds  of 
persons  roam  through  the  storied  places  of 
England,  carrying  nothing  away  but  the 
bare  sense  of  travel.  It  is  not  the  spectacle 
that  benefits,  but  the  meaning  of  the  spec- 
tacle. In  the  great  temples  of  religion,  in 
those  wonderful  cathedrals  that  are  the 
glory  of  the  old  world,  we  ought  to  feel,  not 
merely  the  physical  beauty  but  the  perfect, 
illimitable  faith,  the  passionate,  incessant 
devotion,  which  alone  made  them  possible. 
The  cold  intellect  of  a  sceptical  age,  like  the 
present,  could  never  create  such  a  majestic 
cathedral  as  that  of  Canterbury.  Not  till 
the  pilgrim  feels  this  truth  has  he  really 
learned  the  lesson  of  such  places,  —  to  keep 
alive  in  his  heart  the  capacity  of  self-sacri- 
fice, of  toil  and  of  tears,  for  the  grandeur  and 
beauty  of  the  spiritual  life.  At  the  tombs  of 
great  men  we  ought  to  feel  something  more 


OLD   CHURCHES   OF   LONDON.  1 89 

than  a  consciousness  of  the  crumbling  clay- 
that  moulders  within,  —  something  more 
even  than  knowledge  of  their  memorable 
words  and  deeds  :  we  ought,  as  we  ponder 
on  the  certainty  of  death  and  the  evanes- 
cence of  earthly  things,  to  realise  that  Art 
at  least  is  permanent,  and  that  no  creature 
can  be  better  employed  than  in  noble  effort 
to  make  the  soul  worthy  of  immortality. 
The  relics  of  the  past,  contemplated  merely 
because  they  are  relics,  are  nothing.  You 
tire,  in  this  old  land,  of  the  endless  array 
of  ruined  castles  and  of  wasting  graves  ; 
you  sicken  at  the  thought  of  the  mortality 
of  a  thousand  years,  decaying  at  your  feet, 
and  you  long  to  look  again  on  roses  and  the 
face  of  childhood,  the  ocean  and  the  stars. 
But  not  if  the  meaning  of  the  past  is  truly 
within  your  sympathy ;  not  if  you  per- 
ceive its  associations  as  feeling  equally  with 
knowledge  ;  not  if  you  truly  know  that  its 
lessons  are  not  of  death  but  of  life  !  To-day 
builds  over  the  ruins  of  yesterday,  as  well 
in  the  soul  of  man  as  on  the  vanishing  cities 
that  mark  his  course.  There  need  be  no 
regret  that  the  present  should,  in  this  sense, 
obliterate  the  past. 

Much,  however,  as  London  has  changed, 
and  constantly  as  it  continues  to  change, 


190    OLD  CHURCHES  OF  LONDON. 

there  still  remain,  and  long  will  continue  to 
remain,  many  objects  that  startle  and  im- 
press the  sensitive  mind.  Through  all  its 
wide  compass,  by  night  and  day,  there  flows 
and  beats  a  turbulent,  resounding  tide  of 
activity,  and  hundreds  of  trivial  and  vacu- 
ous persons,  sordid,  ignorant,  and  common- 
place, tramp  to  and  fro  amid  its  storied 
antiquities,  heedless  of  their  existence. 
Through  such  surroundings,  but  finding 
here  and  there  a  sympathetic  guide  or  a 
friendly  suggestion,  the  explorer  must  make 
his  way,  —  lonely  in  the  crowd,  and  walk- 
ing like  one  who  lives  in  a  dream.  Yet  he 
never  will  drift  in  vain  through  a  city  like 
this.  I  went  one  night  into  the  cloisters 
of  Westminster  Abbey  —  that  part,  the 
South  Walk,  which  is  still  accessible  after 
the  gates  have  been  closed.  The  stars 
shone  down  upon  the  blackening  walls  and 
glimmering  windows  of  the  great  cathedral ; 
the  grim,  mysterious  arches  were  dimly 
lighted ;  the  stony  pathways,  stretching 
away  beneath  the  venerable  building, 
seemed  to  lose  themselves  in  caverns  of 
darkness  ;  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the 
faint  rustling  of  the  grass  upon  the  cloister 
green.  Every  stone  there  is  the  mark  of  a 
sepulchre  ;  every  breath  of  the  night  wind 


OLD  CHURCHES  OF  LONDON.    I9I 

seemed  the  whisper  of  a  gliding  ghost. 
There,  among  the  crowded  graves,  rest 
Anne  Oldfield  and  Anne  Bracegirdle,  —  in 
Queen  Anne's  reign  such  brilliant  lumi- 
naries of  the  stage,  —  and  there  was  buried 
the  dust  of  Aaron  Hill,  poet  and  dramatist, 
once  manager  of  Drury  Lane,  who  wrote 
The  Fair  Inconstant  for  Barton  Booth,  and 
some  notably  felicitous  love-songs.  There, 
too,  are  the  relics  of  Susanna  Maria  Arne 
(Mrs.  Theo.  Cibber),  Mrs.  Dancer,  Thomas 
Betterton,  and  Spranger  Barry.  Sitting 
upon  the  narrow  ledge  that  was  the 
monks'  rest,  I  could  touch,  close  at  hand, 
the  tomb  of  a  mitred  abbot,  while  at  my 
feet  was  the  great  stone  that  covers  twenty- 
six  monks  of  Westminster  who  perished  by 
the  Plague  nearly  six  hundred  years  ago. 
It  would  scarcely  be  believed  that  the  doors 
of  dwellings  open  upon  that  gloomy  spot ; 
that  ladies  may  sometimes  be  seen  tending 
flowers  upon  the  ledges  that  roof  these 
cloister  walks.  Yet  so  it  is  ;  and  in  such  a 
place,  at  such  a  time,  you  comprehend  bet- 
ter than  before  the  self-centred,  serious, 
ruminant,  romantic  character  of  the  English 
mind,  —  which  loves,  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world,  the  privacy  of  august 
surroundings    and   a  sombre    and  stately 


192         OLD  CHURCHES   OF  LONDON. 

solitude.  It  hardly  need  be  said  that  you 
likewise  obtain  here  a  striking  sense  of  the 
power  of  contrast.  I  was  again  aware  of 
this,  a  little  later,  when,  seeing  a  dim  light 
in  St.  Margaret's  church  near  by,  I  entered 
that  old  temple  and  found  the  men  of  the 
choir  at  their  rehearsal,  and  presently 
observed  on  the  wall  a  brass  plate  which 
announces  that  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was 
buried  here,  in  the  chancel,  —  after  being 
decapitated  for  high  treason  in  the  Palace 
Yard  outside.  Such  things  are  the  sur- 
prises of  this  historic  capital.  This  inscrip- 
tion begs  the  reader  to  remember  Raleigh's 
virtues  as  well  as  his  faults,  —  a  plea,  sure- 
ly, that  every  man  might  well  wish  should 
be  made  for  himself  at  last.  I  thought  of 
the  verses  that  the  old  warrior-poet  is  said 
to  have  left  in  his  Bible,  when  they  led  him 
out  to  die  — 

"Even  such  is  time  ;  that  takes  in  trust 

Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 
And  pays  us  nought  but  age  and  dust ; 

Which,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 

Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days.  — 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 

My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust." 

This  church  contains  a  window  commemo- 


OLD  CHURCHES  OF  LONDON.    1 93 

rative  of  Raleigh,  presented  by  Americans, 
and  inscribed  with  these  lines,  by  Lowell  — 

"  The  New  World's  sons,  from  England's  breast 

we  drew 

Such  milk  as  bids  remember  whence  we  came ; 

Proud  of  her  past,  wheref rom  our  future  grew, 

This  window    we    inscribe   with   Raleigb's 

name." 

It  also  contains  a  window  commemora- 
tive of  Caxton,  presented  by  the  printers 
arid  publishers  of  London,  which  is  inscribed 
with  these  lines  by  Tennyson  — 

"Thy  prayer  was  Light  — more  Light  — while 

Time  shall  last. 

Thou  sawest  a  glory  growing  on  the  night, 

But  not  the  shadows  which  that  light  would 

cast 

Till  shadows  vanish  in  the  Light  of  Light." 

In  St.  Margaret's — a  storied  haunt,  for 
shining  names  alike  of  nobles  and  poets  — 
was  also  buried  John  Skelton,  another  of 
the  old  bards  (obiit  1529),  the  enemy  and 
satirist  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  and  Sir  Thomas 
More,  one  of  whom  he  described  as  "  madde 
Amaleke,"  and  the  other  as  "dawcock 
doctor."  Their  renown  has  managed  to 
survive  those  terrific  shafts;  but  at  least 
this  was  a  falcon  who  flew  at  eagles.     Here 

N 


194         OLD   CHURCHES   OF   LONDON. 

the  poet  Campbell  was  married,  —  October 
11,  1803.  Such  old  churches  as  this  — 
guarding  so  well  their  treasures  of  history  — ■ 
are,  in  a  special  sense,  the  traveller's  bless- 
ings. At  St.  Giles's,  Cripplegate,  the  jani- 
tor is  a  woman ;  and  she  will  point  out  to 
you  the  lettered  stone  that  formerly  marked 
the  grave  of  Milton.  It  is  in  the  nave,  but 
it  has  been  moved  to  a  place  about  twelve 
feet  from  its  original  position,  —  the  remains 
of  the  illustrious  poet  being,  in  fact,  beneath 
the  floor  of  a  pew,  on  the  left  of  the  central 
aisle,  about  the  middle  of  the  church  :  albeit 
there  is  a  story,  possibly  true,  that,  on  an 
occasion  when  this  church  was  repaired,  in 
August,  1790,  the  coffin  of  Milton  suffered 
profanation,  and  his  bones  were  dispersed. 
Among  the  monuments  hard  by  is  a  fine 
marble  bust  of  Milton,  placed  against  the 
wall,  and  it  is  said,  by  way  of  enhancing  its 
value,  that  George  the  Third  came  here  to 
see  it.1  Several  of  the  neighbouring  inscrip- 
tions are  of  astonishing  quaintness.  The 
adjacent   churchyard  —  a   queer,  irregular, 

1  This  memorial  bears  the  following  inscription : 
"  John  Milton.  Author  of  •  Paradise  Lost.'  Born, 
December  1608.  Died,  November  1674.  His  father, 
John  Milton,  died,  March  1646.  They  were  both 
interred  in  this  church." 


OLD  CHUKCHES  OF  LONDON.    1 95 

sequestered,  lonesome  bit  of  grassy  ground, 
teeming  with  monuments,  and  hemmed  in 
with  houses,  terminates,  at  one  end,  in  a 
piece  of  the  old  Roman  wall  of  London 
(a.d.  306), — an  adamantine  structure  of 
cemented  flints  —  which  has  lasted  from  the 
days  of  Constantine,  and  which  bids  fair  to 
last  forever.  I  shall  always  remember  that 
strange  nook  with  the  golden  light  of  a  sum- 
mer morning  shining  upon  it,  the  birds 
twittering  among  its  graves,  and  all  around 
it  such  an  atmosphere  of  solitude  and  rest 
as  made  it  seem,  though  in  the  heart  of  the 
great  city,  a  thousand  miles  from  any  haunt 
of  man.  (It  was  formally  opened  as  a  gar- 
den for  public  recreation  on  July  8,  1891.) 

St.  Helen's,  Bishopsgate,  an  ancient  and 
venerable  temple,  the  church  of  the  priory 
of  the  nuns  of  St.  Helen,  built  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  is  full  of  relics  of  the  history 
of  England.  The  priory,  which  adjoined 
this  church,  has  long  since  disappeared  and 
portions  of  the  building  have  been  restored  ; 
but  the  noble  Gothic  columns  and  the  com- 
memorative sculpture  remain  unchanged. 
Here  are  the  tombs  of  Sir  John  Crosby, 
who  built  Crosby  Place  (1466),  Sir  Thomas 
Gresham,  who  founded  both  Gresham  Col- 
lege and  the  Royal  Exchange  in  London, 


I96    OLD  CHURCHES  OF  LONDON. 

and  Sir  William  Pickering,  once  Queen 
Elizabeth's  Minister  to  Spain  and  one  of 
the  amorous  aspirants  for  her  royal  hand  ; 
and  here,  in  a  gloomy  chapel,  stands  the 
veritable  altar  at  which,  it  is  said,  the  Duke 
of  Gloster  received  absolution,  after  the 
disappearance  of  the  princes  in  the  Tower. 
Standing  at  that  altar,  in  the  cool  silence 
of  the  lonely  church  and  the  waning  light 
of  afternoon,  it  was  easy  to  conjure  up  his 
slender,  misshapen  form,  decked  in  the  rich 
apparel  that  he  loved,  his  handsome,  aqui- 
line, thoughtful  face,  the  drooping  head, 
the  glittering  eyes,  the  nervous  hand  that 
toyed  with  the  dagger,  and  the  stealthy 
stillness  of  his  person,  from  head  to  foot, 
as  he  knelt  there  before  the  priest  and 
mocked  himself  and  heaven  with  the  form  of 
prayer.  Every  place  that  Richard  touched 
is  haunted  by  his  magnetic  presence.  In 
another  part  of  the  church  you  are  shown 
the  tomb  of  a  person  whose  will  provided 
that  the  key  of  his  sepulchre  should  be 
placed  beside  his  body,  and  that  the  door 
should  be  opened  once  a  year,  for  a  hundred 
years.  It  seems  to  have  been  his  expecta- 
tion to  awake  and  arise  ;  but  the  allotted 
century  has  passed  and  his  bones  are  still 
quiescent. 


OLD  CHURCHES  OF  LONDON.    1 97 

How  calmly  they  sleep  —  those  warriors 
who  once  filled  the  world  with  the  tumult 
of  their  deeds  !  If  you  go  into  St.  Mary's, 
in  the  Temple,  you  will  stand  above  the 
dust  of  the  Crusaders  and  mark  the  beau- 
tiful copper  effigies  of  them,  recumbent  on 
the  marble  pavement,  and  feel  and  know, 
as  perhaps  you  never  did  before,  the  calm 
that  follows  the  tempest.  St.  Mary's  was 
built  in  1240  and  restored  in  1828.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  find  a  lovelier  speci- 
men of  Norman  architecture  —  at  once 
massive  and  airy,  perfectly  simple,  yet 
rich  with  beauty,  in  every  line  and  scroll. 
There  is  only  one  other  church  in  Great 
Britain,  it  is  said,  which  has,  like  this,  a 
circular  vestibule.  The  stained  glass  win- 
dows, both  here  and  at  St.  Helen's,  are 
very  glorious.  The  organ  at  St.  Mary's 
was  selected  by  Jeffreys,  afterwards  infa- 
mous as  the  wicked  judge.  The  pilgrim 
who  pauses  to  muse  at  the  grave  of  Gold- 
smith may  often  hear  its  solemn,  mournful 
tones.  I  heard  them  thus,  and  was  think- 
ing of  Dr.  Johnson's  tender  words,  when 
he  first  learned  that  Goldsmith  was  dead : 
• '  Poor  Goldy  was  wild  —  very  wild  —  but 
he  is  so  no  more."  The  room  in  which  he 
died,  a  heart-broken  man  at  only  forty-six, 


I98    OLD  CHURCHES  OF  LONDON. 

was  but  a  little  way  from  the  spot  where  he 
sleeps.1  The  noises  of  Fleet  Street  are 
heard  there  only  as  a  distant  murmur.  But 
birds  chirp  over  him,  and  leaves  flutter 
down  upon  his  tomb,  and  every  breeze  that 
sighs  around  the  gray  turrets  of  the  ancient 
Temple  breathes  out  his  requiem. 

1  No.  2  Brick  Court,  Middle  Temple.  —In  1757-58 
Goldsmith  was  employed  by  a  chemist,  near  Fish 
Street  Hill.  When  he  wrote  his  Inquiry  into  the 
Present  State  0/  Polite  Learning  in  Europe  he  was 
living  in  Green  Arbour  Court,  "  over  Break-neck 
Steps."  At  a  lodging  in  Wine  Office  Court,  Fleet 
Street,  he  wrote  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  After- 
wards he  had  lodgings  at  Canonbury  House,  Isling- 
ton, and  in  1764,  in  the  Library  Staircase  of  the 
Inner  Temple. 


LITERARY   SHRINES   OF   LONDON.        1 99 


XV. 

LITERARY    SHRINES    OF    LONDON. 

THE  mind  that  can  reverence  historic 
associations  needs  no  explanation  of 
the  charm  that  such  associations  possess. 
There  are  streets  and  houses  in  London 
which,  for  pilgrims  of  this  class,  are  haunted 
with  memories  and  hallowed  with  an  imper- 
ishable light  —  that  not  even  the  dreary- 
commonness  of  everyday  life  can  quench  or 
dim.  Almost  every  great  author  in  English 
literature  has  here  left  behind  him  some 
personal  trace,  some  relic  that  brings  us  at 
once  into  his  living  presence.  In  the  time 
of  Shakespeare,  —  of  whom  it  may  be  noted 
that  wherever  you  find  him  at  all  you  find 
him  in  select  and  elegant  neighbourhoods, 
—  Aldersgate  was  a  secluded  and  peaceful 
quarter  of  the  town  ;  and  there  the  poet  had 
his  residence,  convenient  to  the  theatre  in 
Blackfriars,  in  which  he  is  known  to  have 
owned  a  share.  It  is  said  that  he  dwelt 
at    number    134    Aldersgate    Street    (the 


200      LITERARY  SHRINES  OF  LONDON. 

house  was  long  ago  demolished),  and  in 
that  region,  —  amid  all  the  din  of  traffic 
and  all  the  strange  adjuncts  of  a  new 
age,  —  those  who  love  him  are  in  his 
company.  Milton  was  born  in  a  court 
adjacent  to  Bread  Street,  Cheapside,  and 
the  explorer  comes  upon  him  as  a  resident 
in  St.  Bride's  churchyard,  —  where  the  poet 
Lovelace  was  buried,  —  and  at  the  house 
which  is  now  No.  19  York  Street,  West- 
minster (in  later  times  occupied  by  Bentham 
and  by  Hazlitt),  and  in  Jewin  Street, 
Aldersgate.  When  secretary  to  Cromwell 
he  lived  in  Scotland  Yard,  where  now  is  the 
headquarters  of  the  London  police.  His 
last  home  was  in  Artillery  Walk,  Bunhill 
Fields,  but  the  visitor  to  that  spot  finds  it 
covered  by  the  Artillery  barracks.  Walk- 
ing through  King  Street,  Westminster,  you 
will  not  forget  Edmund  Spenser,  who  died 
there,  in  grief  and  destitution,  a  victim  to 
the  same  inhuman  spirit  of  Irish  ruffian- 
ism that  is  still  disgracing  humanity  and 
troubling  the  peace  of  the  world.  Every- 
body remembers  Ben  Jonson's  terse  record 
of  that  calamity :  ' '  The  Irish  having  robbed 
Spenser's  goods  and  burnt  his  house  and  a 
little  child  new-born,  he  and  his  wife  escaped, 
and  after  he  died,  for  lack  of  bread,  in  King 


LITERARY   SHRINES   OF   LONDON.     201 

Street."  Jonson  himself  is  closely  and 
charmingly  associated  with  places  that  may 
still  be  seen.  He  passed  his  boyhood  near 
Charing  Cross  — having  been  born  in  Harts- 
horn Lane,  now  Northumberland  Street  — 
and  went  to  the  parish  school  of  St.  Martin- 
in-the- Fields  ;  and  those  who  roam  around 
Lincoln's  Inn  will  call  to  mind  that  this 
great  poet  helped  to  build  it  —  a  trowel  in 
one  hand  and  Horace  in  the  other.  His 
residence,  in  his  days  of  fame,  was  just 
outside  of  Temple  Bar — but  all  that  neigh- 
bourhood is  new  at  the  present  day. 

The  Mermaid,  which  he  frequented  — 
with  Shakespeare,  Fletcher,  Herrick,  Chap- 
man, and  Donne  —  was  in  Bread  Street, 
but  no  trace  of  it  remains  ;  and  a  banking- 
house  stands  now  on  the  site  of  the  Devil 
Tavern,  in  Fleet  Street,  where  the  Apollo 
Club,  which  he  founded,  used  to  meet.  The 
famous  inscription,  "  0  rare  Ben  Jonson," 
is  three  times  cut  in  the  Abbey  —  once  in 
Poets'  Corner  and  twice  in  the  north  aisle 
where  he  was  buried,  the  smaller  of  the 
two  slabs  marking  the  place  of  his  vertical 
grave.  Dryden  once  dwelt  in  a  narrow, 
dingy,  quaint  house,  in  Fetter  Lane,  —  the 
street  in  which  Dean  Swift  has  placed  the 
home  of  Gulliver,  and  where  now  the  famous 


202      LITERARY   SHRINES  OF  LONDON. 

Doomsday  Book  is  kept,  —  but  later  he  re« 
moved  to  a  finer  dwelling,  in  Gerrard 
Street,  Soho,  which  was  the  scene  of  his 
death.  Both  buildings  are  marked  with 
mural  tablets  and  neither  of  them  seems  to 
have  undergone  much  change.  (The  house 
in  Fetter  Lane  is  gone  — 1891.)  Edmund 
Burke's  house,  also  in  Gerrard  Street,  is  a 
beer-shop ;  but  his  memory  hallows  the  place, 
and  an  inscription  upon  it  proudly  announce  i 
that  here  he  lived.  Dr.  Johnson's  house  in 
Gough  Square  bears  likewise  a  mural  tab- 
let, and,  standing  at  its  time-worn  thresh- 
old, the  visitor  needs  no  effort  of  fancy 
to  picture  that  uncouth  figure  shambling 
through  the  crooked  lanes  that  lead  into 
this  queer,  sombre,  melancholy  retreat.  In 
this  house  he  wrote  the  first  Dictionary 
of  the  English  language  and  the  immortal 
letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield.  In  Gough 
Square  lived  and  died  Hugh  Kelly,  drama- 
tist, author  of  The  School  of  Wives  and 
The  Man  of  Reason,  and  one  of  the  friends 
of  Goldsmith,  at  whose  burial  he  was  pres- 
ent. The  historical  antiquarian  society 
that  has  marked  many  of  the  literary 
shrines  of  London  has  rendered  a  great 
service.  The  houses  associated  with  Rey- 
nolds  and   Hogarth,  in  Leicester  Square, 


LITERARY  SHRINES  OF  LONDON.      203 

Byron,  in  Holies  Street,  Benjamin  Frank, 
lin  and  Peter  the  Great,  in  Craven  Street, 
Campbell,  in  Duke  Street,  St.  James's, 
Garrick,  in  the  Adelphi  Terrace,  Michael 
Farraday,  in  Blandford  Street,  and  Mrs. 
Siddons,  in  Baker  Street,  are  but  a  few  of 
the  historic  spots  which  are  thus  commem- 
orated. Much,  however,  remains  to  be 
done.  One  would  like  to  know,  for  in- 
stance, in  which  room  in  "The  Albany" 
it  was  that  Byron  wrote  Zara,1  in  which  of 
the  houses  in  Buckingham  Street  Coleridge 
had  his  lodging  while  he  was  translating 
Wallenstein ;  whereabouts  in  Bloomsbury 
Square  was  the  residence  of  Akenside,  who 

1  Byron  was  born  at  No.  24  Holies  Street,  Caven- 
dish Square.  While  he  was  at  school  in  Dulwich 
Grove  his  motbf.r  liv?d  in  a  house  in  Sloane  Terrace. 
Other  houses  associated  with  him  are  No.  8  St. 
James  Street;  a  lodging  in  Bennet  Street;  No.  2 
"The  Albany"  —  a  lodging  that  he  rented  of  Lord 
Althorpe,  and  moved  into  on  March  28th,  1814;  and 
No.  139  Piccadilly,  where  his  daughter,  Ada,  was 
born,  and  where  Lady  Byron  left  him.  This,  at 
present,  is  the  home  of  the  genial  scholar  Sir  Alger- 
non Borthwick  (1885).  John  Murray's  bouse,  where 
Byron's  fragment  of  Autobiography  was  burned,  iB 
still  on  the  same  spot  in  Albemarle  Street.  Byron's 
body,  when  brought  home  from  Greece,  lay  in  state 
at  No.  25  Great  George  Street,  Westminster,  before 
being  taken  north,  to  Hucknall-Torkard  church,  in 
Nottinghamshire,  for  burial. 


204      LITERARY   SHRINES   OF   LONDON. 

wrote  The  Pleasures  of  Imagination,  and 
of  Croly,  who  wrote  Salathiel;  or  where  it 
was  that  Gray  lived,  when  he  established 
himself  close  by  Russell  Square,  in  order  to 
be  one  of  the  first  —  as  he  continued  to  be 
one  of  the  most  constant  —  students  at  the 
then  newly  opened  British  Museum  (1759). 
These,  and  such  as  these,  may  seem  trivial 
things  ;  but  Nature  has  denied  an  unfailing 
source  of  innocent  happiness  to  the  man 
who  can  find  no  pleasure  in  them.  For  my 
part,  when  rambling  in  Fleet  Street  it  is  a 
special  delight  to  remember  even  so  slight 
an  incident  as  that  recorded  of  the  author 
of  the  "Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchy ard," 
—  that  he  once  saw  there  his  satirist,  Dr. 
Johnson,  rolling  and  puffing  along  the  side- 
walk, and  cried  out  to  a  friend,  "  Here 
comes  Ursa  Major."  For  the  true  lovers 
of  literature  "Ursa  Major"  walks  oftener 
in  Fleet  Street  to-day  than  any  living  man. 
A  good  thread  of  literary  research  might 
be  profitably  followed  by  him  who  should 
trace  the  -  footsteps  of  all  the  poets  that 
have  held,  in  England,  the  office  of  laureate. 
John  Kay  was  laureate  in  the  reign  of  Ed- 
ward IV.  ;  Andrew  Bernard  in  that  of 
Henry  VII.  ;  John  Skelton  in  that  of  Henry 
VIII. ;  and  Edmund   Spenser   in    that   of 


LITERARY  SHRINES  OF  LONDON.       2O5 

Elizabeth.  Since  then  the  succession  has 
included  the  names  of  Samuel  Daniel, 
Michael  Drayton,  Ben  Jonson,  Sir  William 
Davenant,  John  Dryden,  Thomas  Shadwell, 
Nahum  Tate,  Nicholas  Rowe,  Lawrence 
Eusden,  Colley  Cibber,  William  Whitehead, 
Thomas  Wharton,  Henry  James  Pye,  Rob- 
ert Southey,  William  Wordsworth,  and 
Alfred  Tennyson  —  the  latter  still  wearing, 
in  spotless  renown,  that 

"  Laurel  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  that  uttered  nothing  base." 

Most  of  those  bards  were  intimately  asso- 
ciated with  London,  and  several  of  them 
are  buried  in  the  Abbey.  It  is,  indeed,  be- 
cause so  many  storied  names  are  written 
upon  gravestones  that  the  explorer  of  the 
old  churches  of  London  finds  so  rich  a  har- 
vest of  impressive  association  and  lofty 
thought.  Few  persons  visit  them,  and  you 
are  likely  to  find  yourself  comparatively 
alone  in  rambles  of  this  kind.  I  went  one 
morning  into  St.  Martin  —  once  ' '  in  the 
fields,"  now  in  one  of  the  busiest  thorough- 
fares at  the  centre  of  the  city  —  and  found 
there  only  a  pew-opener  preparing  for  the 
service,  and  an  organist  playing  an  anthem. 
It  is  a  beautiful  structure,  with  its  graceful 


206      LITERARY  SHRINES  OF  LONDON. 

spire  and  its  columns  of  weather-beaten 
stone,  curiously  stained  in  gray  and  sooty 
black,  and  it  is  almost  as  famous  for  theat- 
rical names  as  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden, 
or  St.  George's,  Bloomsbury,  or  St.  Clement 
Danes.  Here,  in  a  vault  beneath  the  church, 
was  buried  the  bewitching  and  large-hearted 
Nell  Gwyn ;  here  is  the  grave  of  James 
Smith,  joint  author  with  his  brother  Hor- 
ace —  who  was  buried  at  Tunbridge  Wells 
—  of  The  Bejected  Addresses,'  here  rests 
Yates,  the  original  Sir  Oliver  Surface  ;  and 
here  were  laid  the  ashes  of  the  romantic 
and  brilliant  Mrs.  Centlivre,  and  of  George 
Farquhar,  whom  neither  youth,  genius, 
patient  labour,  nor  sterling  achievement 
could  save  from  a  life  of  misfortune  and  an 
untimely  and  piteous  death.  A  cheerier 
association  of  this  church  is  with  Thomas 
Moore,  the  poet  of  Ireland,  who  was  here 
married.  At  St.  Giles' s-in-the-Fields,  again, 
are  the  graves  of  George  Chapman,  who 
translated  Homer,  Andrew  Marvel,  who 
wrote  such  lovely  lyrics  of  love,  Rich,  the 
manager,  who  brought  out  Gay's  Beggars'1 
Opera,  and  James  Shirley,  the  fine  old 
dramatist  and  poet,  whose  immortal  couplet 
has  been  so  often  murmured  in  such  solemn 
haunts  as  these  — 


LITERARY  SHRINES  OE  LONDON.      207 

"  Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust." 

Shirley  lived  in  Gray's  Inn  when  he  was 
writing  his  plays,  and  he  was  fortunate  in 
the  favour  of  Queen  Henrietta  Maria,  wife 
to  Charles  the  First ;  but  when  the  Puritan 
times  came  in  he  fell  into  misfortune  and 
poverty  and  became  a  school-teacher  in 
Whitefriars.  In  1666  he  was  living  in  or 
near  Fleet  Street,  and  his  home  was  one 
of  the  many  dwellings  that  were  destroyed 
in  the  great  fire.  Then  he  fled,  with  his 
wife,  into  the  parish  of  St.  Giles' s-in-the- 
Fields,  where,  overcome  with  grief  and 
terror,  they  both  died,  within  twenty-four 
hours  of  each  other,  and  were  buried  in  the 
same  grave. 


208         A  HAUNT   OF  EDMUND   KEAN. 


XVI. 

A    HAUNT    OF    EDMUND    KEAN. 

TO  muse  over  the  dust  of  those  about 
whom  we  have  read  so  much  —  the 
great  actors,  thinkers,  and  writers,  the 
warriors  and  statesmen  for  whom  the  play 
is  ended  and  the  lights  are  put  out  —  is  to 
come  very  near  to  them,  and  to  realise  more 
deeply  than  ever  before  their  close  relation- 
ship with  our  own  humanity;  and  we  ought 
to  be  wiser  and  better  for  this  experience. 
It  is  good,  also,  to  seek  out  the  favourite 
haunts  of  our  heroes,  and  call  them  up  as 
they  were  in  their  lives.  One  of  the  hap- 
piest accidents  of  a  London  stroll  was  the 
finding  of  the  Harp  Tavern,1  in  Eussell 
Street,  Covent  Garden,  near  the  stage  door 

1  An  account  of  the  "  Harp  "  in  the  Victuallers' 
Gazette  says  that  this  tavern  has  had  within  its  doors 
every  actor  of  note  since  the  days  of  Garrick,  and 
many  actresses,  also,  of  the  period  of  eighty  or  a 
hundred  years  ago;  and  it  mentions  as  visitants  here 
Dora  Jordan,  Nance  Oldfield,  Anne    Bracegirdle, 


A  HAUNT   OF  EDMUND  KEAN.         209 

of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  which  was  the  ac- 
customed resort  of  Edmund  Kean.  Car- 
penters and  masons  were  at  work  upon  it 
when  I  entered,  and  it  was  necessary  almost 
to  creep  amid  heaps  of  broken  mortar  and 
rubbish  beneath  their  scaffolds,  in  order  to 
reach  the  interior  rooms.  Here,  at  the  end 
of  a  narrow  passage,  was  a  little  apartment, 
perhaps  fifteen  feet  square,  with  a  low  ceil- 
ing and  a  bare  floor,  in  which  Kean  habitu- 
ally took  his  pleasure,  in  the  society  of 
fellow-actors  and  boon  companions,  long 
ago.  A  narrow,  cushioned  bench  against 
the  walls,  a  few  small  tables,  a  chair  or 
two,  a  number  of  churchwarden  pipes  on 
the  mantlepiece,  and  portraits  of  Disraeli 
and  Gladstone,  constituted  the  furniture. 
A  panelled  wainscot  and  dingy  red  paper 
covered  the  walls,  and  a  few  cobwebs  hung 
from  the  grimy  ceiling.  By  this  time  the 
old  room  has  been  made  neat  and  comely; 
but  then  it  bore  the  marks  of  hard  usage 
and  long  neglect,  and  it  seemed  all  the  more 
interesting  for  that  reason. 

Kean's  seat  is  at  the  right,  as  you  enter, 
and  just  above  it  a  mural  tablet  designates 

Kitty  Clive,  Harriet  Mellon,  Barton  Booth,  Quin, 
Cibber,  Macklin,  Grimaldi,  Mme.  Vestris,  and  Miss 
Stephens  —  who  became  Countess  of  Essex. 

O 


210         A  HAUNT   OF  EDMUND   KEAN. 

the  spot,  —  which  is  still  further  commemo- 
rated by  a  death-mask  of  the  actor,  placed 
on  a  little  shelf  of  dark  wood  and  covered 
with  glass.  No  better  portrait  could  be  de- 
sired ;  certainly  no  better  one  exists.  In 
life  this  must  have  been  a  glorious  face. 
The  eyes  are  large  and  prominent,  the  brow 
is  broad  and  fine,  the  mouth  wide  and 
obviously  sensitive,  the  chin  delicate,  and 
the  nose  long,  well  set,  and  indicative  of 
immense  force  of  character.  The  whole 
expression  of  the  face  is  that  of  refinement 
and  of  great  and  desolate  sadness.  Kean, 
as  is  known  from  the  testimony  of  one  who 
acted  with  him,1  was  always  at  his  best  in 
passages  of  pathos.  To  hear  him  speak 
Othello's  farewell  was  to  hear  the  perfect 
music  of  heart-broken  despair.  To  see  him 
when,  as  The  Stranger,  he  listened  to  the 
song,  was  to  see  the  genuine,  absolute 
reality  of  hopeless  sorrow.      He  could,  of 

1  The  mother  of  Jefferson,  the  comedian,  described 
Edmund  Kean  in  this  way.  She  was  a  member  of 
the  company  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  Phila- 
delphia, when  he  acted  there,  and  it  was  she  who 
tang  for  him  the  well-known  lines  — 

*'  I  have  a  silent  sorrow  here, 
A  grief  I  '11  ne'er  impart; 
It  breathes  no  sigh,  it  sheds  no  tear, 
But  it  consumes  my  heart." 


A  HAUNT   OF  EDMUND   KEAN.         211 

course,  thrill  his  hearers  in  the  ferocious 
outbursts  of  Kichard  and  Sir  Giles,  but  it 
was  in  tenderness  and  grief  that  he  was 
supremely  great ;  and  no  one  will  wonder 
at  that  who  looks  upon  his  noble  face  —  so 
eloquent  of  self-conflict  and  suffering  —  even 
in  this  cold  and  colourless  mask  of  death. 
It  is  easy  to  judge  and  condemn  the  sins  of 
a  weak,  passionate  humanity;  but  when  we 
think  of  such  creatures  of  genius  as  Edmund 
Kean  and  Robert  Burns,  we  ought  to  con- 
sider what  demons  in  their  own  souls  those 
wretched  men  were  forced  to  fight,  and  by 
what  agonies  they  expiated  their  vices  and 
errors.  This  little  tavern-room  tells  the 
whole  mournful  story,  with  death  to  point 
the  moral,  and  pity  to  breathe  its  sigh  of 
unavailing  regret. 

Many  of  the  present  frequenters  of  the 
Harp  are  elderly  men,  whose  conversation 
is  enriched  with  memories  of  the  stage  and 
with  ample  knowledge  and  judicious  taste 
in  literature  and  art.  They  naturally  speak 
with  pride  of  Kean's  association  with  their 
favourite  resort.  Often  in  that  room  the 
eccentric  genius  has  put  himself  in  pawn, 
to  exact  from  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane 
theatre  the  money  needed  to  relieve  the 
wants  of  some  brother  actor.      Often  his 


212         A   HAUNT   OF  EDMUND   KEAN. 

voice  has  been  heard  there,  in  the  songs 
that  he  sang  with  so  much  feeling  and 
sweetness  and  such  homely  yet  beautiful 
skill.  In  the  circles  of  the  learned  and 
courtly  he  never  was  really  at  home ;  but 
here  he  filled  the  throne  and  ruled  the  king- 
dom of  the  revel,  and  here  no  doubt  every 
mood  of  his  mind,  from  high  thought  and 
generous  emotion  to  misanthropical  bitter- 
ness and  vacant  levity,  found  its  unfettered 
expression.  '  They  show  you  a  broken  panel 
in  the  high  wainscot,  which  was  struck  and 
smashed  by  a  pewter  pot  that  he  hurled  at 
the  head  of  a  person  who  had  given  him 
offence  ;  and  they  tell  you  at  the  same  time, 
—  as,  indeed,  is  historically  true,  —  that  he 
was  the  idol  of  his  comrades,  the  first  in 
love,  pity,  sympathy,  and  kindness,  and 
would  turn  his  back,  any  day,  for  the  least 
of  them,  on  the  nobles  who  sought  his  com- 
panionship. There  is  no  better  place  than 
this  in  which  to  study  the  life  of  Edmund 
Kean.  Old  men  have  been  met  with  here  who 
saw  him  on  the  stage,  and  even  acted  with 
him.  The  room  is  the  weekly  meeting-place 
and  habitual  nightly  tryst  of  an  ancient 
club,  called  the  City  of  Lushington,  which 
has  existed  since  the  days  of  the  Regency, 
and  of  which  these  persons  are  members. 


A  HAUNT   OF  EDMUND   KEAN.         21 3 

The  City  has  its  Mayor,  Sheriff,  insignia, 
record-book,  and  system  of  ceremonials ; 
and  much  of  wit,  wisdom,  and  song  may 
be  enjoyed  at  its  civic  feasts.     The  names 
of  its  four  wards  —  Lunacy,  Suicide,  Pov- 
erty, and  Juniper  — are  written  up  in  the 
four  corners  of  the  room,  and  whoever  joins 
must  select   his    ward.      Sheridan  was   a 
member  of  it,  and  so  was  the  Regent ;  and 
the  present   landlord    of    the   Harp    (Mr. 
M'Pherson)  preserves  among  his  relics  the 
chairs  in  which  those  gay  companions  sat, 
when  the  author  presided  over  the  initiation 
of  the  prince.     It  is  thought  that  this  club 
originated   out    of    the    society    of    "The 
Wolves,"   which  was    formed   by   Kean's 
adherents,  when  the  elder  Booth  arose  to 
disturb  his  supremacy  upon  the  stage.    But 
there  is  no  malice  in  it  now.     Its  purposes 
are  simply  convivial  and  literary,  and  its 
tone  is  that  of  thorough  good-will.1 

One  of  the  gentlest  and  most  winning 
traits  hi  the  English  character  is  its  instinct 
of  companionship  as  to  literature  and  art. 
Since  the  days  of  the  Mermaid  the  authors 
and  actors  of  London  have  dearly  loved  and 

1  A  coloured  print  of  this  room  may  be  found  in 
that  eccentric  book  The  Life  of  an  Actor,  by  Pierce 
Egan:  1825. 


214         A  HAUNT   OF  EDMUND  KEAN. 

deeply  enjoyed  such  odd  little  fraternities 
of  wit  as  are  typified,  not  inaptly,  by  the 
City  of  Lushington.  There  are  no  rosier 
hours  in  my  memory  than  those  that  were 
passed,  between  midnight  and  morning,  in 
the  cosy  clubs  in  London.  And  when  dark 
days  come,  and  foes  harass,  and  the  trou- 
bles of  life  annoy,  it  will  be  sweet  to  think 
that  in  still  another  sacred  retreat  of  friend- 
ship, across  the  sea,  the  old  armour  is  gleam- 
ing in  the  festal  lights,  where  one  of  the 
gentlest  spirits  that  ever  wore  the  laurel  of 
England's  love  smiles  kindly  on  his  com- 
rades and  seems  to  murmur  the  charm  of 
English  hospitality  — 

"  Let  no  one  take  beyond  this  threshold  hence 
Words  uttered  here  in  friendship's  confi- 
dence." 


STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GKAY.     215 


XVII. 
STOKE-POGIS   AND   THOMAS   GRAY. 

IT  is  a  cool  afternoon  in  July,  and  the 
shadows  are  falling  eastward  on  fields 
of  waving  grain  and  lawns  of  emerald  velvet. 
Overhead  a  few  light  clouds  are  drifting, 
and  the  green  boughs  of  the  great  elms  are 
gently  stirred  by  a  breeze  from  the  west. 
Across  one  of  the  more  distant  fields  a  flock 
of  sable  rooks  —  some  of  them  fluttering  and 
cawing  —  wings  its  slow  and  melancholy 
flight.  There  is  the  sound  of  the  whetting 
of  a  scythe,  and,  near  by,  the  twittering  of 
many  birds  upon  a  cottage  roof.  On  either 
side  of  the  country  road,  which  runs  like  a 
white  rivulet  through  banks  of  green,  the 
hawthorn  hedges  are  shining  and  the  bright 
sod  is  spangled  with  all  the  wild-flowers  of 
an  English  summer.  An  odour  of  lime-trees 
and  of  new-mown  hay  sweetens  the  air  for 
miles  and  miles  around.  Far  off,  on  the 
horizon's  verge,  just  glimmering  through 
the  haze,  rises  the  imperial  citadel  of  Wind- 


21 6      STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY. 

sor.  And  close  at  hand  a  little  child  points 
to  a  gray  spire  peering  out  of  a  nest  of 
ivy,  and  tells  me  that  this  is  Stoke-Pogis 
church. 

If  peace  dwells  anywhere  upon  the  earth 
its  dwelling-place  is  here.  You  come  into 
this  little  churchyard  by  a  pathway  across 
the  park  and  through  a  wooden  turnstile ; 
and  in  one  moment  the  whole  world  is  left 
behind  and  forgotten.  Here  are  the  nod- 
ding elms ;  here  is  the  yew-tree's  shade ; 
here  ' '  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moulder- 
ing heap. ' '  All  these  graves  seem  very  old. 
The  long  grass  waves  over  them,  and  some 
of  the  low  stones  that  mark  them  are  en- 
tirely shrouded  with  ivy.  Many  of  the 
4 '  frail  memorials ' '  are  made  of  wood.  None 
of  them  is  neglected  or  forlorn,  but  all  of 
them  seem  to  have  been  scattered  here,  in 
that  sweet  disorder  which  is  the  perfection 
of  rural  loveliness.  There  never,  of  course, 
could  have  been  any  thought  of  creating 
this  effect ;  yet  here  it  remains,  to  win  your 
heart  forever.  And  here,  amid  this  mourn- 
ful beauty,  the  little  church  itself  nestles 
close  to  the  ground,  while  every  tree  that 
waves  its  branches  around  it,  and  every 
vine  that  clambers  on  its  surface,  seems  to 
clasp  it  in  the  arms  of  love.    Nothing  breaks 


STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY.      21 7 

the  silence  but  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in 
the  great  yew-tree  at  the  church  door,  — 
beneath  which  was  the  poet's  favourite  seat, 
and  where  the  brown  needles,  falling, 
through  many  an  autumn,  have  made  a 
dense  carpet  on  the  turf.  Now  and  then 
there  is  a  faint  rustle  in  the  ivy ;  a  fitful 
bird-note  serves  but  to  deepen  the  stillness  ; 
and  from  a  rose-tree  near  at  hand  a  few 
leaves  flutter  down,  in  soundless  benedic- 
tion on  the  dust  beneath. 

Gray  was  laid  in  the  same  grave  with  his 
mother,  ' '  the  careful,  tender  mother  of 
many  children,  one  alone  of  whom,"  as  he 
wrote  upon  her  gravestone,  "had  the  mis- 
fortune to  survive  her."  Their  tomb  —  a 
low,  oblong,  brick  structure,  covered  with 
a  large  slab  —  stands  a  few  feet  away  from 
the  church  wall,  upon  which  is  a  small  tab- 
let to  denote  its  place.  The  poet's  name  has 
not  been  inscribed  above  him.  There  was 
no  need  here  of  "storied  urn  or  animated 
bust."  The  place  is  his  monument,  and  the 
majestic  Elegy  —  giving  to  the  soul  of  the 
place  a  form  of  seraphic  beauty  and  a  voice 
of  celestial  music  —  is  his  immortal  epitaph. 

"  There  scatter'd  oft,  the  earliest  of  ye  Year, 
By  hands  unseen  are  showers  of  vi'lets 
found ; 


21 8      STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY. 

The  Redbreast  loves  to  build  &  warble  there, 
And    little    Footsteps    lightly    print    the 
ground." 

There  is  a  monument  to  Gray  in  Stoke 
Park,  about  two  hundred  yards  from  the 
church ;  but  it  seems  commemorative  of  the 
builder  rather  than  the  poet.  They  intend 
to  set  a  memorial  window  in  the  church,  to 
honour  him,  and  the  visitor  finds  there  a 
money-box  for  the  reception  of  contribu- 
tions in  aid  of  this  pious  design.  Nothing 
will  be  done  amiss  that  serves  to  direct 
closer  attention  to  his  life.  It  was  one  of 
the  best  lives  ever  recorded  in  the  history 
of  literature.  It  was  a  life  singularly  pure, 
noble,  and  beautiful.  In  two  qualities, 
sincerity  and  reticence,  it  was  exemplary 
almost  beyond  a  parallel;  and  those  are 
qualities  that  literary  character  in  the 
present  day  has  great  need  to  acquire. 
Gray  was  averse  to  publicity.  He  did  not 
sway  by  the  censure  of  other  men  ;  neither 
did  he  need  their  admiration  as  his  breath 
of  life.  Poetry,  to  him,  was  a  great  art, 
and  he  added  nothing  to  literature  until  he 
had  first  made  it  as  nearly  perfect  as  it 
could  be  made  by  the  thoughtful,  laborious 
exertion  of  his  best  powers,  superadded  to 
the  spontaneous  impulse  and  flow  of  his 


STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY.      21 9 

genius.  More  voluminous  writers,  Charles 
Dickens  among  the  rest,  have  sneered  at 
him  because  he  wrote  so  little.  The  most 
colossal  form  of  human  complacency  is  that 
of  the  individual  who  thinks  all  other  crea- 
tures inferior  who  happen  to  be  unlike  him- 
self. This  reticence  on  the  part  of  Gray 
was,  in  fact,  the  emblem  of  his  sincerity 
and  the  compelling  cause  of  his  imperish- 
able renown.  There  is  a  better  thing  than 
the  great  man  who  is  always  speaking ;  and 
that  is  the  great  man  who  only  speaks  when 
he  has  a  great  word  to  say.  Gray  has  left 
only  a  few  poems ;  but  of  his  principal 
works  each  is  perfect  in  its  kind,  supreme 
and  unapproachable.  He  did  not  test  merit 
by  reference  to  ill-formed  and  capricious 
public  opinion,  but  he  wrought  according 
to  the  highest  standards  of  art  that  learning 
and  taste  could  furnish.  His  letters  form 
an  English  classic.  There  is  no  purer  prose 
in  existence ;  there  is  not  much  that  is  so 
pure.  But  the  crowning  glory  of  Gray's 
nature,  the  element  that  makes  it  so  im- 
pressive, the  charm  that  brings  the  pilgrim 
to  Stoke-Pogis  church  to  muse  upon  it,  was 
the  self-poised,  sincere,  and  lovely  exalta- 
tion of  its  contemplative  spirit.  He  was  a 
man  whose  conduct  of  life  would,  first  of 


220      STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY. 

all,  purify,  expand,  and  adorn  the  temple 
of  his  own  soul,  out  of  which  should  after- 
ward flow,  in  their  own  free  way,  those 
choral  harmonies  that  soothe,  guide,  and 
exalt  the  human  race.  He  lived  before  he 
wrote.  The  soul  of  the  Elegy  is  the  soul 
of  the  man.  It  was  his  thought  —  which  he 
has  somewhere  expressed  in  better  words 
than  these  —  that  human  beings  are  only  at 
their  best  while  such  feelings  endure  as  are 
engendered  when  death  has  just  taken  from 
us  the  objects  of  our  love.  That  was  the 
point  of  view  from  which  he  habitually 
looked  upon  the  world ;  and  no  man  who 
has  learned  the  lessons  of  experience  can 
doubt  that  he  was  right. 

Gray  was  twenty-six  years  old  when  he 
wrote  the  first  draft  of  the  Elegy.  He  began 
that  poem  in  1742,  at  Stoke- Pogis,  and  he 
finished  and  published  it  in  1751.  No  visitor 
to  this  churchyard  can  miss  either  its  inspi- 
ration or  its  imagery.  The  poet  has  been 
dead  more  than-  a  hundred  years,  but  the 
scene  of  his  rambles  and  reveries  has  suf- 
fered no  material  change.  One  of  his  yew- 
trees,  indeed,  much  weakened  with  age, 
was  some  time  since  blown  down  in  a  storm, 
and  its  fragments  have  been  carried  away. 
The  picturesque  manor  house  not  far  dis- 


STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY.      221 

tant  was  once  the  home  of  Admiral  Perm, 
father  of  William  Perm  the  famous  Quaker.1 
All  the  trees  of  the  region  have,  of  course, 
waxed  and  expanded,  —  not  forgetting  the 
neighbouring  beeches  of  Burnham,  among 
which  he  loved  to  wander,  and  where  he 
might  often  have  been  found,  sitting  with 
his  book,  at  some  gnarled  wreath  of  ' '  old 
fantastic  roots."  But  in  its  general  charac- 
teristics, its  rustic  homeliness  and  peaceful 
beauty,  this  "glimmering  landscape,"  im- 
mortalised in  his  verse,  is  the  same  on  which 
his  living  eyes  have  looked.  There  was  no 
need  to  seek  for  him  in  any  special  spot. 
The  house  in  which  he  once  lived  might,  no 

1  William  Penn  and  his  children  are  buried  in  a 
little  Quaker  graveyard,  not  many  miles  away.  The 
visitor  to  Stoke-Pogis  should  not  omit  a  visit  to  Up- 
ton church,  Burnham  village,  and  Binfield.  Pope 
lived  at  Binfield  when  he  wrote  his  poem  on  Wind- 
sor Forest.  Upton  claims  to  have  had  a  share  in 
the  inspiration  of  the  Elegy,  but  Stoke-Pogis  was 
unquestionably  his  place  of  residence  when  he 
wrote  it.  Langley  Marish  ought  to  be  visited  also, 
and  Horton  —  where  Milton  wrote  "  L'Allegro," 
"  II  Penseroso,"  and  "  Comus."  Chalfont  St.  Peter 
is  accessible,  where  still  is  standing  the  house  in 
which  Milton  finished  "Paradise  Lost"  and  began 
"  Paradise  Regained  "  ;  and  from  there  a  short  drive 
will  take  you  to  Beaconsfield  where  you  may  see 
Edmund  Burke's  tablet  in  the  church  and  the  monu- 
ment  to  Waller  in  the  churchyard. 


222      STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY. 

doubt,  be  discovered ;  but  every  nook  and 
vista,  every  green  lane  and  upland  lawn  and 
ivy -mantled  tower  of  this  delicious  solitude 
is  haunted  with  his  presence. 

The  night  is  coming  on  and  the  picture 
will  soon  be  dark ;  but  never  while  mem- 
ory lasts  can  it  fade  out  of  the  heart.  What 
a  blessing  would  be  ours,  if  only  we  could 
hold  forever  that  exaltation  of  the  spirit, 
that  sweet,  resigned  serenity,  that  pure 
freedom  from  all  the  passions  of  nature 
and  all  the  cares  of  life,  which  comes  upon 
us  in  such  a  place  as  this  !  Alas,  and  again 
alas  !  Even  with  the  thought  this  golden 
mood  begins  to  melt  away;  even  with  the 
thought  comes  our  dismissal  from  its  influ- 
ence. Nor  will  it  avail  us  anything  now  to 
linger  at  the  shrine.  Fortunate  is  he,  though 
in  bereavement  and  regret,  who  parts  from 
beauty  while  yet  her  kiss  is  warm  upon  his 
lips,  — waiting  not  for  the  last  farewell  word, 
hearing  not  the  last  notes  of  the  music,  see- 
ing not  the  last  gleams  of  sunset  as  the 
light  dies  from  the  sky.  It  was  a  sad  part- 
ing, but  the  memory  of  the  place  can  never 
now  be  despoiled  of  its  loveliness.  As  I 
write  these  words  I  stand  again  in  the  cool 
and  dusky  silence  of  the  poet's  church,  with 
its  air  of  stately  age  and  its  fragrance  of 


STOKE-POGIS  AND  THOMAS  GRAY.      223 

cleanliness,  while  the  light  of  the  western 
sun,  broken  into  rays  of  gold  and  ruby, 
streams  through  the  painted  windows  and 
softly  falls  upon  the  quaint  little  galleries 
and  decorous  pews ;  and,  looking  forth 
through  the  low,  arched  door,  I  see  the 
dark  and  melancholy  boughs  of  the  dream- 
ing yew-tree,  and,  nearer,  a  shadow  of  rip- 
pling leaves  in  the  clear  sunshine  of  the 
churchway  path.  And  all  the  time  a  gentle 
voice  is  whispering,  in  the  chambers  of 
thought  — 

"  No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or    draw  his  frailties  from    their  dread 
abode : 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God." 


224       AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   COLERIDGE. 


XVIII. 
AT   THE    GRAVE    OF   COLERIDGE. 

AMONG  the  many  deep-thoughted,  melo- 
dious, and  eloquent  poems  of  Words- 
worth there  is  one  —  about  the  burial  of 
Ossian  —  that  glances  at  the  question  of 
fitness  in  a  place  of  sepulchre.  Not  always, 
for  the  illustrious  dead,  has  the  final  couch 
of  rest  been  rightly  chosen.  We  think  with 
resignation,  and  with  a  kind  of  pride,  of 
Keats  and  Shelley  in  the  little  Protestant 
burial-ground  at  Rome.  Every  heart  is 
touched  at  the  spectacle  of  Garrick  and 
Johnson  sleeping  side  by  side  in  Westmin- 
ster Abbey.  It  was  right  that  the  dust  of 
Dean  Stanley  should  mingle  with  the  dust 
of  poets  and  of  kings  ;  and  to  see  —  as  the 
present  writer  did,  only  a  little  while  ago 
—  fresh  flowers  on  the  stone  that  covers 
him,  in  the  chapel  of  Henry  the  Seventh, 
was  to  feel  a  tender  gladness  and  solemn 
content.  Shakespeare's  grave,  in  the  chan- 
cel of  Stratford  church,  awakens  the  same 


AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   COLERIDGE.       225 

ennobling  awe  and  melancholy  pleasure  ; 
and  it  is  with  kindred  feeling  that  you 
linger  at  the  tomb  of  Gray.  But  who  can 
be  content  that  poor  Letitia  Landon  should 
sleep  beneath  the  pavement  of  a  barrack, 
with  soldiers  trampling  over  her  dust  ?  One 
might  almost  think,  sometimes,  that  the 
spirit  of  calamity,  which  follows  certain 
persons  throughout  the  whole  of  life,  had 
pursued  them  even  in  death,  to  haunt  about 
their  repose  and  to  mar  all  the  gentleness 
of  association  that  ought  to  hallow  it.  Chat- 
terton,  a  pauper  and  a  suicide,  was  huddled 
into  a  workhouse  graveyard,  the  very  place 
of  which  —  in  Shoe  Lane,  covered  now  by 
Farringdon  Market  —  has  disappeared.  Ot- 
way,  miserable  in  his  love  for  Elizabeth 
Barry,  the  actress,  and  said  to  have  starved 
to  death  in  the  Minories,  near  the  Tower  of 
London,  was  laid  in  a  vault  of  St.  Clement 
Danes  in  the  middle  of  the  Strand,  where 
never  the  green  leaves  rustle,  but  where 
the  roar  of  the  mighty  city  pours  on  in  con- 
tinual tumult.  That  church  holds  also  the 
remains  of  William  Mountfort,  the  actor, 
slain  in  a  brawl  by  Lord  Mohim  ;  of  Nat 
Lee,  "the  mad  poet"  ;  of  George  Powell, 
the  tragedian,  of  brilliant  and  deplorable 
memory  ;  and  of  the  handsome  Hildebrand 


226      AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   COLERIDGE. 

Horden,  cut  off  by  a  violent  death  in  the 
spring-time  of  his  youth.  Hildebrand 
Horden  was  the  son  of  a  clergyman  of 
Twickenham  and  lived  in  the  reign  of 
William  and  Mary.  Dramatic  chronicles 
say  that  he  was  possessed  of  great  talents 
as  an  actor,  and  of  remarkable  personal 
beauty.  He  was  stabbed,  in  a  quarrel,  at 
the  Rose  Tavern  ;  and  after  he  had  been 
laid  out  for  the  grave,  such  was  the  lively 
feminine  interest  in  his  handsome  person, 
many  ladies  came,  some  masked  and  others 
openly,  to  view  him  in  his  shroud.  This 
is  mentioned  in  Colley  Cibber's  Apology. 
Charles  Coffey,  the  dramatist,  author  of 
The  Devil  upon  Two  Sticks,  and  other 
plays,  lies  in  the  vaults  of  St.  Clement ;  as 
likewise  does  Thomas  Rymer,  historiog- 
rapher for  William  III. ,  successor  to  Shad- 
well,  and  author  of  Fazdera,  in  seventeen 
volumes.  In  the  church  of  St.  Clement 
you  may  see  the  pew  in  which  Dr.  Johnson 
habitually  sat  when  he  attended  divine 
service  there.  It  was  his  favourite  church. 
The  pew  is  in  the  gallery  ;  and  to  those  who 
honour  the  passionate  integrity  and  fervent, 
devout  zeal  of  the  stalwart  old  champion  of 
letters,  it  is  indeed  a  sacred  shrine.  Henry 
Mossop,  one  of  the  stateliest  of  stately  act- 


AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   COLERIDGE.       227 

ors,  perishing,  by  slow  degrees,  of  penury 
and  grief,  —  which  he  bore  in  proud  silence, 

—  found  a  refuge,  at  last,  in  the  barren 
gloom  of  Chelsea  churchyard.  Theodore 
Hook,  the  cheeriest  spirit  of  his  time,  the 
man  who  filled  every  hour  of  life  with  the 
sunshine  of  his  wit  and  was  wasted  and 
degraded  by  his  own  brilliancy,  rests,  close 
by  Bishop  Sherlock,  in  Fulharn  churchyard, 

—  one  of  the  dreariest  spots  in  the  suburbs 
of  London.  Perhaps  it  does  not  much  sig- 
nify, when  once  the  play  is  over,  in  what 
oblivion  our  crumbling  relics  are  hidden 
away.  Yet  to  most  human  creatures  these 
are  sacred  things,  and  many  a  loving  heart, 
for  all  time  to  come,  will  choose  a  conse- 
crated spot  for  the  repose  of  the  dead,  and 
will  echo  the  tender  words  of  Longfellow, 

—  so  truly  expressive  of  a  universal  and 
reverent  sentiment  — 

"  Take  them,  0  Grave,  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 
As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves." 

One  of  the  most  impressive  of  the  many 
literary  pilgrimages  that  I  have  made  was 
that  which  brought  me  to  the  house  in 
which  Coleridge  died,  and  the  place  where 
he  was  buried.     The  student  needs  not  to 


228   AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  COLERIDGE. 

be  told  that  this  poet,  born  in  1772,  the 
year  after  Gray's  death,  bore  the  white 
lilies  of  pure  literature  till  1834,  when  he 
too  entered  into  his  rest.  The  last  nineteen 
years  of  the  life  of  Coleridge  were  spent  in 
a  house  at  Highgate;  and  there,  within  a 
few  steps  of  each  other,  the  visitor  may  be- 
hold his  dwelling  and  his  tomb.  The  house 
is  one  in  a  block  of  dwellings,  situated 
in  what  is  called  the  Grove  —  a  broad, 
embowered  street,  a  little  way  from  the 
centre  of  the  village.  There  are  gardens 
attached  to  these  houses,  both  in  the  front 
and  the  rear,  and  the  smooth  and  peaceful 
roadside  walks  in  the  Grove  itself  are 
pleasantly  shaded  by  elms  of  noble  size 
and  abundant  foliage.  These  were  young 
trees  when  Coleridge  saw  them,  and  all  this 
neighbourhood,  in  his  day,  was  but  thinly 
settled.  Looking  from  his  chamber  window 
he  could  see  the  dusky  outlines  of  sombre 
London,  crowned  with  the  dome  of  St. 
Paul's  on  the  southern  horizon,  while,  more 
near,  across  a  fertile  and  smiling  valley,  the 
gray  spire  of  Hampstead  church  would 
bound  his  prospect,  rising  above  the  ver- 
dant woodland   of  Caen.1    In  front  were 

1  "  Come  in  the  first  stage,  so  as  either  to  walk  or 
to  be  driven  in  Mr.  Oilman's  gig,  to  Caen  wood  and 


AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   COLERIDGE.       229 

beds  of  flowers,  and  all  around  he  might 
hear  the  songs  of  birds  that  filled  the  fra- 
grant air  with  their  happy,  careless  music. 
Not  far  away  stood  the  old  church  of  High- 
gate,  long  since  destroyed,  in  which  he  used 
to  worship,  and  close  by  was  the  Gate  House 
inn,  primitive,  quaint,  and  cosy,  which  still 
is  standing  to  comfort  the  weary  traveller 
with  its  wholesome  hospitality.  Highgate, 
with  all  its  rural  peace,  must  have  been  a 
bustling  place  in  the  old  times,  for  all  the 
travel  went  through  it  that  passed  either 
into  or  out  of  London  by  the  great  north 
road, — that  road  in  which  Whittington 
heard  the  prophetic  summons  of  the  bells, 
and  where  may  still  be  seen,  suitably  and 
rightly  marked,  the  site  of  the  stone  on 
which  he  sat  to  rest.  Here,  indeed,  the 
coaches  used  to  halt,  either  to  feed  or  to 
change  horses,  and  here  the  many  neglected 
little  taverns  still  remaining,  with  their  odd 
names  and  their  swinging  signs,  testify  to 
the  discarded  customs  of  a  bygone  age. 
Some  years  ago  a  new  road  was  cut,  so  that 

its  delicious  groves  and  alleys,  the  finest  in  England, 
a  grand  cathedral  aisle  of  giant  lime-trees,  Pope's 
favourite  composition  walk,  when  with  the  old  Earl." 
—  Coleridge  to  Crabb  Hobinson.     Highgate,  June 

1817. 


23O      AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   COLERIDGE. 

travellers  might  wind  around  the  hill,  and 
avoid  climbing  the  steep  ascent  to  the  vil- 
lage ;  and  since  then  the  grass  has  begun 
to  grow  in  the  streets.  But  such  bustle  as 
once  enlivened  the  solitude  of  Highgate 
could  never  have  been  otherwise  than  agree- 
able diversion  to  its  inhabitants  ;  while  for 
Coleridge  himself,  as  we  can  well  imagine, 
the  London  coach  was  welcome  indeed, 
that  brought  to  his  door  such  well-loved 
friends  as  Charles  Lamb,  Joseph  Henry 
Green,  Crabb  Robinson,  Wordsworth,  or 
Talfourd. 

To  this  retreat  the  author  of  "The  An- 
cient Mariner"  withdrew  in  1815,  to  live 
with  his  friend  James  Gilman,  a  surgeon, 
who  had  undertaken  to  rescue  him  from  the 
demon  of  opium,  but  who,  as  De  Quincey 
intimates,  was  lured  by  the  poet  into  the 
service  of  the  very  fiend  whom  both  had 
striven  to  subdue.  It  was  his  last  refuge, 
and  he  never  left  it  till  he  was  released  from 
life.  As  you  ramble  in  that  quiet  neigh- 
bourhood your  fancy  will  not  fail  to  con- 
jure up  his  placid  figure,  —  the  silver 
hair,  the  pale  face,  the  great,  luminous, 
changeful  blue  eyes,  the  somewhat  portly 
form  clothed  in  black  raiment,  the  slow, 
feeble  walk,  the  sweet,  benignant  manner, 


AT   THE  GRAVE   OF   COLERIDGE.       231 

the  voice  that  was  perfect  melody,  and 
the  inexhaustible  talk  that  was  the  flow  of 
a  golden  sea  of  eloquence  and  wisdom. 
Coleridge  was  often  seen  walking  there, 
with  a  book  in  his  hand  ;  and  the  children 
of  the  village  knew  him  and  loved  him. 
His  presence  is  impressed  forever  upon  the 
place,  to  haunt  and  to  hallow  it.  He  was  a 
very  great  man.  The  wings  of  his  imagina- 
tion wave  easily  in  the  opal  air  of  the  high- 
est heaven.  The  power  and  majesty  of  his 
thought  are  such  as  establish  forever  in 
the  human  mind  the  conviction  of  personal 
immortality.  Yet  how  forlorn  the  ending 
that  this  stately  soul  was  enforced  to  make  ! 
For  more  than  thirty  years  he  was  the 
slave  of  opium.  It  blighted  his  home  ;  it 
alienated  his  wife  ;  it  ruined  his  health  ; 
it  made  him  utterly  wretched.  "I  have 
been,  through  a  large  portion  of  my  later 
life,"  he  wrote  in  1834,  "a  sufferer,  sorely 
afflicted  with  bodily  pains,  languor,  and 
manifold  infirmities."  But  back  of  all  this, 
—  more  dreadful  still  and  harder  to  bear,  — 
was  he  not  the  slave  of  some  ingrained 
perversity  of  the  mind  itself,  some  helpless 
and  hopeless  irresolution  of  character,  some 
enervating  spell  of  that  sublime  yet  pitiable 
dejection  of  Hamlet,  which  kept  him  for- 


232       AT   THE  GRAVE   OF  COLERIDGE. 

ever  at  war  with  himself,  and,  last  of  all, 
cast  hirn  out  upon  the  homeless  ocean  of 
despair,  to  drift  away  into  ruin  and  death? 
There  are  shapes  more  awful  than  his,  in 
the  records  of  literary  history, — the  ravaged, 
agonising  form  of  Swift,  for  instance,  and 
the  wonderful,  desolate  face  of  Byron  ;  but 
there  is  no  figure  more  forlorn  and  pathetic. 
This  way  the  memory  of  Coleridge  came 
upon  me,  standing  at  his  grave.  He  should 
have  been  laid  in  some  wild,  free  place, 
where  the  grass  could  grow  above  him  and 
the  trees  could  wave  their  branches  over 
his  head.  They  placed  him  in  a  ponderous 
tomb,  of  gray  stone,  in  Highgate  church- 
yard, and  in  later  times  they  have  reared 
a  new  building  above  it, — the  grammar- 
school  of  the  village,  —  so  that  now  the 
tomb,  fenced  round  with  iron,  is  in  a  cold, 
barren,  gloomy  crypt,  accessible  indeed 
from  the  churchyard,  through  several 
arches,  but  grim  and  doleful  in  all  its  sur- 
roundings ;  as  if  the  evil  and  cruel  fate 
that  marred  his  life  were  still  triumphant 
over  his  ashes. 


ON   BARNET    BATTLE-FIELD.  233 


XIX. 

ON   BARNET    BATTLE-FIELD. 

IN  England,  as  elsewhere,  every  historic 
spot  is  occupied  ;  and  of  course  it  some- 
times happens,  at  such  a  spot,  that  its  asso- 
ciation is  marred  and  its  sentiment  almost 
destroyed  by  the  presence  of  the  persons 
and  the  interests  of  to-day.  The  visitor  to 
such  places  must  carry  with  him  not  only 
knowledge  and  sensibility  but  imagination 
and  patience.  He  will  not  find  the  way 
strewn  with  roses  nor  the  atmosphere  of 
poetry  ready-made  for  his  enjoyment.  That 
atmosphere,  indeed,  for  the  most  part  — 
especially  in  the  cities  —  he  must  himself 
supply.  Kelics  do  not  robe  themselves  for 
exhibition.  The  Past  is  utterly  indifferent 
to  its  worshippers.  All  manner  of  little 
obstacles,  too,  will  arise  before  the  pilgrim, 
to  thwart  him  in  his  search.  The  mental 
strain  and  bewilderment,  the  inevitable 
physical  weariness,  the  soporific  influence 
of  the  climate,  the  tumult  of  the  streets, 


234  ON    BARNET    BATTLE-FIELD. 

the  frequent  and  disheartening  spectacle  of 
poverty,  squalor,  and  vice,  the  capricious 
and  untimely  rain,  the  inconvenience  of 
long  distances,  the  ill-timed  arrival  and 
consequent  disappointment,  the  occasional 
nervous  sense  of  loneliness  and  insecurity, 
the  inappropriate  boor,  the  ignorant,  gar- 
rulous porter,  the  extortionate  cabman,  and 
the  jeering  bystander  —  all  these  must  be 
regarded  with  resolute  indifference  by  him 
who  would  ramble,  pleasantly  and  profit- 
ably, in  the  footprints  of  English  history. 
Everything  depends,  in  other  words,  upon 
the  eyes  with  which  you  observe  and  the 
spirit  which  you  impart.  Never  was  a 
keener  truth  uttered  than  in  the  couplet 
of  Wordsworth  — 

"  Minds  that  have  nothing  to  confer 
Find  little  to  perceive." 

To  the  philosophic  stranger,  however, 
even  this  prosaic  occupancy  of  historic 
places  is  not  without  its  pleasurable,  be- 
cause humorous,  significance.  Such  an 
observer  in  England  will  sometimes  be 
amused  as  well  as  impressed  by  a  sudden 
sense  of  the  singular  incidental  position 
into  which  —  partly  through  the  lapse  of 
years,  and  partly  through  a  peculiarity  of 


ON  BARNET   BATTLE-FIELD.  235 

national  character  —  the  scenes  of  famous 
events,  not  to  say  the  events  themselves, 
have  gradually  drifted.  I  thought  of  this 
one  night,  when,  in  Whitehall  Gardens, 
I  was  looking  at  the  statue  of  James  the 
Second,  and  a  courteous  policeman  came 
up  and  silently  turned  the  light  of  his 
bull's-eye  upon  the  inscription.  A  scene 
of  more  incongruous  elements,  or  one  sug- 
gestive of  a  more  serio-comic  contrast, 
could  not  be  imagined.  I  thought  of  it 
again  when  standing  on  the  village  green 
near  Barnet,  and  viewing,  amid  surround- 
ings both  pastoral  and  ludicrous,  the  column 
which  there  commemorates  the  defeat  and 
death  of  the  great  Earl  of  Warwick,  and, 
consequently,  the  final  triumph  of  the 
Crown  over  the  last  of  the  Barons  of 
England. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  a  cool  summer 
day,  and  of  a  long  drive  through  the  beau- 
tiful hedgerows  of  sweet  and  verdurous 
Middlesex,  that  I  came  to  the  villages  of 
Barnet  and  Hadley,  and  went  over  the  field 
of  King  Edward's  victory,  — that  fatal,  glo- 
rious field,  on  which  Gloster  showed  such 
resolute  valour,  and  where  Neville,  supreme 
and  magnificent  in  disaster,  fought  on  foot, 
to  make  sure  that  himself  might  go  down 


236  ON   BARNET   BATTLE-FIELD. 

in  the  stormy  death  of  all  his  hopes.  More 
than  four  hundred  years  have  drifted  by 
since  that  misty  April  morning  when  the 
star  of  Warwick  was  quenched  in  blood, 
and  ten  thousand  men  were  slaughtered  to 
end  the  strife  between  the  Barons  and  the 
Crown;  yet  the  results  of  that  conflict  are 
living  facts  in  the  government  of  England 
now,  and  in  the  fortunes  of  her  inhabitants. 
If  you  were  unaware  of  the  solid  simplicity 
and  proud  reticence  of  the  English  char- 
acter, —  leading  it  to  merge  all  its  shining 
deeds  in  one  continuous  fabric  of  achieve- 
ment, like  jewels  set  in  a  cloth  of  gold,  — 
you  might  expect  to  find  this  spot  adorned 
with  a  structure  of  more  than  common 
splendour.  What  you  actually  do  find 
there  is  a  plain  monument,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  a  common,  at  the  junction  of 
several  roads,  —  the  chief  of  which  are 
those  leading  to  Hatfield  and  St.  Albans,  in 
Hertfordshire, — and  on  one  side  of  this 
column  you  may  read,  in  letters  of  faded 
black,  the  comprehensive  statement  that 
"  Here  was  fought  the  famous  battle  be- 
tween Edward  the  Fourth  and  the  Earl  of 
Warwick,  April  14th,  anno  1471,  in  which 
the  Earl  was  defeated  and  slain."  1 

1  The  words  "stick  no  bills"  have  been  added, 
just  below  this  inscription. 


ON  BARNET   BATTLE-FIELD.  237 

In  my  reverie,  standing  at  the  foot  of 
this  humble,  weather-stained  monument,  I 
saw  the  long  range  of  Barnet  hills,  mantled 
with  grass  and  flowers  and  with  the  golden 
haze  of  a  morning  in  spring,  swarming 
with  gorgeous  horsemen  and  glittering  with 
spears  and  banners  ;  and  I  heard  the  venge- 
ful clash  of  arms,  the  horrible  neighing  of 
maddened  steeds,  the  furious  shouts  of  on- 
set, and  all  the  nameless  cries  and  groans  of 
battle,  commingled  in  a  thrilling  yet  hideous 
din.  Here  rode  King  Edward,  intrepid, 
handsome,  and  stalwart,  with  his  proud, 
cruel  smile  and  his  long  yellow  hair.  There 
Warwick  swung  his  great  two-handed  sword, 
and  mowed  his  foes  like  grain.  And  there 
the  fiery  form  of  Richard,  splendid  in  bur- 
nished steel,  darted  like  the  scorpion,  deal- 
ing death  at  every  blow  ;  till  at  last,  in 
fatal  mischance,  the  sad  star  of  Oxford, 
assailed  by  its  own  friends,  was  swept  out 
of  the  field,  and  the  fight  drove,  raging, 
into  the  valleys  of  Hadley.  How  strangely, 
though,  did  this  fancied  picture  contrast 
with  the  actual  scene  before  me  !  At  a  little 
distance,  all  around  the  village  green,  the 
peaceful,  embowered  cottages  kept  their 
sentinel  watch.  Over  the  careless,  strag- 
gling grass  went  the  shadow  of  the  passing 


238  ON  BARNET   BATTLE-FIELD. 

cloud.  Not  a  sound  was  heard,  save  the 
rustle  of  leaves  and  the  low  laughter  of 
some  little  children,  playing  near  the  monu- 
ment. Close  by  and  at  rest  was  a  flock  of 
geese,  couched  upon  the  cool  earth,  and,  as 
their  custom  is,  supremely  contented  with 
themselves  and  all  the  world.  And  at  the 
foot  of  the  column,  stretched  out  at  his  full 
length,  in  tattered  garments  that  scarcely 
covered  his  nakedness,  reposed  the  British 
labourer,  fast  asleep  upon  the  sod.  No  more 
Wars  of  the  Roses  now  ;  but  calm  retire- 
ment, smiling  plenty,  cool  western  winds, 
and  sleep  and  peace  — 

"  With  a  red  rose  aud  a  white  rose 
Leaning,  nodding  at  the  wall." 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   CANTERBURY.  239 


XX. 

A    GLIMPSE    OF    CANTERBURY. 

ONE  of  the  most  impressive  spots  on 
earth,  and  one  that  especially  teaches 
—  with  silent,  pathetic  eloquence  and  solemn 
admonition  —  the  great  lesson  of  contrast, 
the  incessant  flow  of  the  ages  and  the  in- 
evitable decay  and  oblivion  of  the  past,  is 
the  ancient  city  of  Canterbury.  Years  and 
not  merely  days  of  residence  there  are  essen- 
tial to  the  adequate  and  right  comprehension 
of  that  wonderful  place.  Yet  even  an  hour 
passed  among  its  shrines  will  teach  you, 
as  no  printed  word  has  ever  taught,  the 
measureless  power  and  the  sublime  beauty 
of  a  perfect  religious  faith  ;  while,  as  you 
stand  and  meditate  in  the  shadow  of  the 
gray  cathedral  walls,  the  pageant  of  a 
thousand  years  of  history  will  pass  before 
you  like  a  dream.  The  city  itself,  with  its 
bright,  swift  river  (the  Stour),  its  opulence 
of  trees  and  flowers,  its  narrow,  winding 
streets,  its  numerous  antique  buildings,  its 


24O         A   GLIMPSE   OF   CANTERBURY. 

many  towers,  its  fragments  of  ancient  wall 
and  gate,  its  formal  decorations,  its  air  of 
perfect  cleanliness  and  thoughtful  gravity, 
its  beautiful,  umbrageous  suburbs,  — where 
the  scarlet  of  the  poppies  and  the  russet 
red  of  the  clover  make  one  vast  rolling  sea 
of  colour  and  of  fragrant  delight,  —  and,  to 
crown  all,  its  stately  character  of  wealth 
without  ostentation  and  industry  without 
tumult,  must  prove  to  you  a  deep  and  satis- 
fying comfort.  But,  through  all  this,  per- 
vading and  surmounting  it  all,  the  spirit 
of  the  place  pours  in  upon  your  heart,  and 
floods  your  whole  being  with  the  incense 
and  organ  music  of  passionate,  jubilant 
devotion. 

It  was  not  superstition  that  reared  those 
gorgeous  fanes  of  worship  which  still  adorn, 
even  while  they  do  longer  consecrate,  the 
ecclesiastic  cities  of  the  old  world.  In  the 
age  of  Augustine,  Dunstan,  and  Ethelnoth 
humanity  had  begun  to  feel  its  profound 
and  vital  need  of  a  sure  and  settled  reliance 
on  religious  faith.  The  drifting  spirit,  worn 
with  sorrow,  doubt,  and  self-conflict,  longed 
to  be  at  peace  —  longed  for  a  refuge  equally 
from  the  evils  and  tortures  of  its  own  con- 
dition and  the  storms  and  perils  of  the 
world.      In  that  longing  it  recognised   its 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   CANTERBURY.  24 1 

immortality  and  heard  the  voice  of  its 
Divine  Parent ;  and  out  of  the  ecstatic  joy 
and  utter  abandonment  of  its  new-born, 
passionate,  responsive  faith,  it  built  and 
consecrated  those  stupendous  temples,  — 
rearing  them  with  all  its  love  no  less  than 
all  its  riches  and  all  its  power.  There  was 
no  wealth  that  it  would  not  give,  no  toil 
that  it  would  not  perform,  and  no  sacrifice 
that  it  would  not  make,  in  the  accomplish- 
ment of  its  sacred  task.  It  was  grandly, 
nobly,  terribly  in  earnest,  and  it  achieved 
a  work  that  is  not  only  sublime  in  its  poetic 
majesty  but  measureless  in  the  scope  and 
extent  of  its  moral  and  spiritual  influence. 
It  has  left  to  succeeding  ages  not  only  a 
legacy  of  permanent  beauty,  not  only  a 
sublime  symbol  of  religious  faith,  but  an 
everlasting  monument  to  the  loveliness  and 
greatness  that  are  inherent  in  human  na- 
ture. No  creature  with  a  human  heart  in 
his  bosom  can  stand  in  such  a  building  as 
Canterbury  cathedral  without  feeling  a 
greater  love  and  reverence  than  he  ever 
felt  before,  alike  for  God  and  man. 

On  a  day  (July  27,  1882)  when  a 
class  of  the  boys  of  the  King's  School 
of  Canterbury  was  graduated  the  pres- 
ent  writer  chanced   to   be   a   listener   to 

Q 


242         A   GLIMPSE   OF   CANTERBURY. 

the  impressive  and  touching  sermon  that 
was  preached  before  them,  in  the  cathe- 
dral ;  wherein  they  were  tenderly  admon- 
ished to  keep  unbroken  their  associations 
with  their  school-days  and  to  remember 
the  lessons  of  the  place  itself.  That 
counsel  must  have  sunk  deep  into  every 
mind.  It  is  difficult  to  understand  how 
any  person  reared  amid  such  scenes  and 
relics  could  ever  cast  away  their  hallow- 
ing influence.  Even  to  the  casual  visitor 
the  bare  thought  of  the  historic  treasures 
that  are  garnered  in  this  temple  is,  by  itself, 
sufficient  to  implant  in  the  bosom  a  mem- 
orable and  lasting  awe.  For  more  than 
twelve  hundred  years  the  succession  of  the 
Archbishops  of  Canterbury  has  remained 
substantially  unbroken.  There  have  been 
ninety-three  ' '  primates  of  all  England, ' '  of 
whom  fifty-three  were  buried  in  the  cathe- 
dral, and  here  the  tombs  of  fifteen  of  them 
are  still  visible.  Here  was  buried  the  saga- 
cious, crafty,  inflexible,  indomitable  Henry 
the  Fourth,  —  that  Hereford  whom  Shake- 
speare has  described  and  interpreted  with 
matchless,  immortal  eloquence,  — and  here, 
cut  off  in  the  morning  of  his  greatness,  and 
lamented  to  this  day  in  the  hearts  of  the 
English  people,  was  laid  the  body  of  Edward 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   CANTERBURY.  243 

the  Black  Prince,  who  to  a  dauntless  valour 
and  terrible  prowess  in  war  added  a  high- 
souled,  human,    and  tender   magnanimity 
in  conquest,   and  whom  personal  virtues 
and  shining  public  deeds  united  to  make 
the  ideal  hero  of  chivalry.    In  no  other  way 
than  by  personal  observance  of  such  memo- 
rials can  historic  reading  be  invested  with 
a  perfect  and  permanent  reality.     Over  the 
tomb  of  the  Black  Prince,  with  its  fine  re- 
cumbent effigy  of  gilded  brass,  hang  the 
gauntlets  that  he  wore ;  and  they  tell  you 
that  his  sword  formerly  hung  there,  but  that 
Oliver  Cromwell,  — who  revealed  his  icono- 
clastic and  unlovely  character  in  making  a 
stable  of  this  cathedral,  —  carried  it  away. 
Close  at  hand  is  the  tomb  of  the  wise,  just, 
and  gentle  Cardinal  Pole,  simply  inscribed 
' '  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die   in  the 
Lord"  ;  and  you  may  touch  a  little,  low 
mausoleum  of  gray  stone,  in  which  are  the 
ashes  of  John  Morton,  that  Bishop  of  Ely 
from  whose  garden  in  Holborn  the  straw- 
berries were  brought  for  the  Duke  of  Glos- 
ter,  on  the  day  when  he  condemned  the 
accomplished  Hastings,  and  who  "fled  to 
Richmond,"  in  good  time,  from  the  stand- 
ard of  the  dangerous  Protector.     Standing 
there,  I  could  almost  hear  the   resolute, 


244         A   GLIMPSE   OF   CANTERBURY. 

scornful  voice  of  Richard,  breathing  out, 
in  clear,  implacable  accents  — 

"  Morton  with   Richmond   touches  me  more 
near 
Than  Buckingham  and  his  rash-levied  num- 
bers." 

The  astute  Morton,  when  Bosworth  was 
over  and  Richmond  had  assumed  the  crown 
and  Bourchier  had  died,  was  made  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury ;  and  as  such,  at  a 
great  age,  he  passed  away.  A  few  hundred 
yards  from  his  place  of  rest,  in  a  vault  be- 
neath the  Church  of  St.  Dunstan,  is  the  head 
of  Sir  Thomas  More  (the  body  being  in  St. 
Peter's,  at  the  Tower  of  London),  who  in 
his  youth  had  been  a  member  of  Morton's 
ecclesiastical  household,  and  whose  great- 
ness that  prelate  had  foreseen  and  prophe- 
sied. Did  no  shadow  of  the  scaffold  ever 
fall  across  the  statesman's  thoughts,  as  he 
looked  upon  that  handsome,  manly  boy, 
and  thought  of  the  troublous  times  that 
were  raging  about  them?  Morton,  aged 
ninety,  died  in  1500  ;  More,  aged  fifty-five, 
in  1535.  Strange  fate,  indeed,  was  that, 
and  as  inscrutable  as  mournful,  which  gave 
to  those  who  in  life  had  been  like  father  and 
son  such  a  ghastly  association  in  death ! 1 

1  St.  Dunstan's  church  was  connected  with  the 
Convent  of  St.  Gregory.    The  Roper  family,  in  the 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   CANTERBURY.  245 

They  show  you  the  place  where  Becket 
was  murdered,  and  the  stone  steps,  worn 
hollow  by  the  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  devout  pilgrims  who,  in  the  days  before 
the  Reformation,  crept  up  to  weep  and 
pray  at  the  costly,  resplendent  shrine  of 
St.  Thomas.  The  bones  of  Becket,  as  all 
the  world  knows,  were,  by  command  of 
Henry  the  Eighth,  burnt,  and  scattered  to 
the  winds,  while  his  shrine  was  pillaged 
and  destroyed.  Neither  tomb  nor  scutcheon 
commemorates  him  here, — but  the  cathe- 
dral itself  is  his  monument.  There  it  stands, 
with  its  grand  columns  and  glorious  arches, 
its  towers  of  enormous  size  and  its  long 
vistas  of  distance  so  mysterious  and  awful, 
its  gloomy  crypt  where  once  the  silver 
lamps  sparkled  and  the  smoking  censers 
were  swung,  its  tombs  of  mighty  warriors 


time  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  founded  a  chapel  in  it,  in 
which  are  two  marble  tombs,  commemorative  of 
them,  and  underneath  which  is  their  burial  vault. 
Margaret  Roper,  Sir  Thomas  More's  daughter,  ob- 
tained her  father's  head,  after  his  execution,  and 
buried  it  here.  The  vault  was  opened  in  1835, — 
when  a  new  pavement  was  laid  in  the  chancel  of  this 
church,  —  and  persona  descending  into  it  saw  the 
head,  in  a  leaden  box  shaped  like  a  beehive,  open 
in  front,  set  in  a  niche  in  the  wall,  behind  an  iron 
grill. 


246         A   GLIMPSE   OF   CANTERBURY. 

and  statesmen,  its  frayed  and  crumbling 
banners,  and  the  eternal,  majestic  silence 
with  which  it  broods  over  the  love,  ambi- 
tion, glory,  defeat,  and  anguish  of  a  thou- 
sand years,  dissolved  now  and  ended  in  a 
little  dust !  As  the  organ  music  died  away 
I  looked  upward  and  saw  where  a  bird  was 
wildly  flying  to  and  fro  through  the  vast 
spaces  beneath  its  lofty  roof,  in  the  vain 
effort  to  find  some  outlet  of  escape.  Fit 
emblem,  truly,  of  the  human  mind  which 
strives  to  comprehend  and  to  utter  the 
meaning  of  this  marvellous  fabric  ! 


THE   SHRINES    OF    WARWICKSHIRE.     247 


XXL 

THE    SHRINES    OF    WARWICKSHIRE. 

1882. 

NIGHT,  in  Stratford-on-A  von  —  a  summer 
night,  with  large,  solemn  stars,  a  cool 
and  fragrant  breeze,  and  the  stillness  of 
perfect  rest.  From  this  high  and  grassy 
bank  I  look  forth  across  the  darkened 
meadows  and  the  smooth  and  shining  river, 
and  see  the  little  town  where  it  lies  asleep. 
Hardly  a  light  is  anywhere  visible.  A  few 
great  elms,  near  by,  are  nodding  and  rus- 
tling in  the  wind,  and  once  or  twice  a  drowsy 
bird-note  floats  up  from  the  neighbouring 
thicket  that  skirts  the  vacant,  lonely  road. 
There,  at  some  distance,  are  the  dim  arches 
of  Clopton's  Bridge.  In  front  —  a  graceful, 
shapely  mass,  indistinct  in  the  starlight  — 
rises  the  fair  Memorial,  Stratford's  honour 
and  pride.  Further  off,  glimmering  through 
the  tree-tops,  is  the  dusky  spire  of  Trinity, 
keeping  its  sacred  vigil  over  the  dust  of 
Shakespeare.  Nothing  here  is  changed. 
The  same  tranquil  beauty,  as  of  old,  hallows 


24S     THE   SHRINES   OP   WARWICKSHIRE. 

this  place ;  the  same  sense  of  awe  and  mys- 
tery broods  over  its  silent  shrines  of  ever- 
lasting renown.  Long  and  weary  the  years 
have  been  since  last  I  saw  it ;  but  to-night 
they  are  remembered  only  as  a  fleeting  and 
troubled  dream.  Here,  once  more,  is  the 
highest  and  noblest  companionship  this 
world  can  give.  Here,  once  more,  is  the 
almost  visible  presence  of  the  one  magician 
who  can  lift  the  soul  out  of  the  infinite 
weariness  of  common  things  and  give  it 
strength  and  peace.  The  old  time  has  come 
back,  and  the  bloom  of  the  heart  that  I 
thought  had  all  faded  and  gone.  I  stroll 
again  to  the  river's  brink,  and  take  my 
place  in  the  boat,  and,  trailing  my  hand 
in  the  dark  waters  of  Avon,  forget  every 
trouble  that  ever  I  have  known. 

It  is  often  said,  with  reference  to  memo- 
rable places,  that  the  best  view  always  is 
the  first  view.  No  doubt  the  accustomed 
eye  sees  blemishes.  No  doubt  the  supreme 
moments  of  human  life  are  few  and  come 
but  once ;  and  neither  of  them  is  ever 
repeated.  Yet  frequently  it  will  be  found 
that  the  change  is  in  ourselves  and  not  in 
the  objects  we  behold.  Scott  has  glanced  at 
this  truth,  in  a  few  mournful  lines,  written 
toward  the  close  of  his  heroic  and  beautiful 


THE  SHRINES   OF   WARWICKSHIRE.     249 

life.  Here  at  Stratford,  however,  I  am  not 
conscious  that  the  wonderful  charm  of  the 
place  is  in  any  degree  impaired.  The  town 
still  preserves  its  old-fashioned  air,  its 
quaintness,  its  perfect  cleanliness  and  order. 
At  the  Shakespeare  cottage,  in  the  stillness 
of  the  room  where  he  was  born,  the  spirits 
of  mystery  and  reverence  still  keep  their 
imperial  state.  At  the  ancient  grammar- 
school,  with  its  pent-house  roof  and  its  dark 
sagging  rafters,  you  still  may  see,  in  fancy, 
the  unwilling  schoolboy  gazing  upward  ab- 
sently at  the  great,  rugged  timbers,  or  look- 
ing wistfully  at  the  sunshine,  where  it 
streams  through  the  little  lattice  windows 
of  his  prison.  New  Place,  with  its  lovely 
lawn,  its  spacious  garden,  the  ancestral 
mulberry  and  the  ivy-covered  well,  will 
bring  the  poet  before  you,  as  he  lived  and 
moved  in  the  meridian  of  his  greatness. 
Cymbeline,  The  Tempest,  and  A  Winter"1  s 
Tale,  the  last  of  his  works,  undoubtedly 
were  written  here ;  and  this  alone  should 
make  it  a  hallowed  spot.  Here  he  blessed 
his  young  daughter  on  her  wedding  day; 
here  his  eyes  closed  in  the  long  last  sleep  ; 
and  from  this  place  he  was  carried  to  his 
grave  in  the  chancel  of  Stratford  church. 
I  pass   once   again    through    the   fragrant 


250     THE   SHRINES    OF    WARWICKSHIRE. 

avenue  of  limes,  the  silent  churchyard  with 
its  crumbling  monuments,  the  dim  porch, 
the  twilight  of  the  venerable  temple,  and 
kneel  at  last  above  the  ashes  of  Shakespeare. 
What  majesty  in  this  triumphant  rest ! 
All  the  great  labour  accomplished.  The 
universal  human  heart  interpreted  with  a 
living  voice.  The  memory  and  the  imagina- 
tion of  mankind  stored  forever  with  words 
of  sublime  eloquence  and  images  of  immor- 
tal beauty.  The  noble  lesson  of  self-con- 
quest— the  lesson  of  the  entire  adequacy  of 
the  resolute,  virtuous,  patient  human  will  — 
set  forth  so  grandly  that  all  the  world  must 
see  its  meaning  and  marvel  at  its  splendour. 
And,  last  of  all,  death  itself  shorn  of  its 
terrors  and  made  a  trivial  thing. 

There  is  a  new  custodian  at  New  Place, 
and  he  will  show  you  the  little  museum 
that  is  kept  there  —  including  the  shovel- 
board  from  the  old  Falcon  tavern  across  the 
way,  on  which  the  poet  himself  might  have 
played  —  and  he  will  lead  you  through  the 
gardens,  and  descant  on  the  mulberry  and 
on  the  ancient  and  still  unf orgiven  vandal- 
ism of  the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell,  by  whom 
the  Shakespeare  mansion  was  destroyed 
(1759),  and  will  pause  at  the  well,  and  at 
the  fragments  of  the  foundation,  covered 


THE   SHRINES    OF   WARWICKSHIRE.      25 1 

now  with  stout  screens  of  wire.  There  is 
a  fresh  and  fragrant  beauty  all  about  these 
grounds,  an  atmosphere  of  sunshine,  life, 
comfort  and  elegance  of  state,  that  no 
observer  can  miss.  This  same  keeper  also 
has  the  keys  of  the  guild  chapel,  opposite, 
on  which  Shakespeare  looked  from  his  win- 
dows and  his  garden,  and  in  which  he  was 
the  holder  of  two  sittings.  You  will  enter 
it  by  the  same  porch  through  which  he 
walked,  and  see  the  arch  and  columns  and 
tall,  mullioned  windows  on  which  his  gaze 
has  often  rested.  The  interior  is  cold  and 
barren  now,  for  the  scriptural  wall-paint- 
ings, discovered  there  in  1804,  under  a  thick 
coating  of  whitewash,  have  been  removed 
and  the  wooden  pews,  which  are  modern, 
have  not  yet  been  embrowned  by  age.  Yet 
this  church,  known  beyond  question  as  one 
of  Shakespeare's  personal  haunts,  will  hold 
you  with  the  strongest  tie  of  reverence  and 
sympathy.  At  his  birthplace  everything 
remains  unchanged.  The  gentle  ladies  who 
have  so  long  guarded  and  shown  it  still 
have  it  in  their  affectionate  care.  The  ceil- 
ing of  the  room  in  which  the  poet  was  born 
—  the  room  that  contains  "the  Actor's 
Pillar"  and  the  thousands  of  signatures  on 
walls  and  windows  -—  is  slowly  crumbling 


252     THE   SHRINES    OF  WARWICKSHIRE. 

to  pieces.  Every  morning  little  particles 
of  the  plaster  are  found  upon  the  floor. 
The  area  of  tiny,  delicate  iron  laths,  to 
sustain  this  ceiling,  has  more  than  doubled 
since  I  last  saw  it,  five  years  ago.  It  was 
on  the  ceiling  that  Lord  Byron  wrote  his 
name,  hut  this  has  flaked  off  and  disap- 
peared. In  the  museum  hall,  once  the 
Swan  inn,  they  are  forming  a  library ;  and 
here  you  may  see  at  least  one  Shakespear- 
ean relic  of  extraordinary  interest.  This 
is  the  MS.  letter  of  Richard  Quiney  —  whose 
son  Thomas  became  in  1616  the  husband  of 
Shakespeare's  youngest  daughter,  Judith 
—  asking  the  poet  for  the  loan  of  thirty 
pounds.  It  is  enclosed  between  plates  of 
glass  in  a  frame,  and  usually  kept  covered 
with  a  cloth,  so  that  the  sunlight  may  not 
fade  the  ink.  The  date  of  this  letter  is 
October  25,  1598,  and  thirty  English  pounds 
then  was  a  sum  equivalent  to  about  six 
hundred  dollars  of  American  money  now. 
This  is  the  only  letter  known  to  be  in  exist* 
ence  that  Shakespeare  received.  Miss  Caro- 
line Chattaway,  the  younger  of  the  ladies 
who  keep  this  house,  will  recite  to  you  its 
text  from  memory  —  giving  a  delicious  old- 
fashioned  flavour  to  its  quaint  phraseology 
and  fervent  spirit,  as  rich  and  strange  as  the 


THE   SHRINES   OE  WARWICKSHIRE.     253 

odour  of  the  wild  thyme  and  rosemary  that 
grow  in  her  garden  beds.  This  antique 
touch  adds  a  wonderful  charm  to  the  relics 
of  the  past.  I  found  it  once  more  when  sit- 
ting in  the  chimmey-corner  of  Anne  Hatha- 
way's  kitchen ;  and  again  in  the  lovely  little 
church  at  Charlecote,  where  a  simple,  kindly 
woman,  not  ashamed  to  reverence  the  place 
and  the  dead,  stood  with  me  at  the  tomb  of 
the  Lucys,  and  repeated  from  memory  the 
tender,  sincere,  and  eloquent  epitaph  with 
which  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  thereon  commemo- 
rates his  wife.  The  lettering  is  small  and 
indistinct  on  the  tomb,  but  having  often 
read  it  I  well  knew  how  correctly  it  was 
then  spoken.  Nor  shall  I  ever  read  it  again 
without  thinking  of  that  kindly,  pleasant 
voice,  the  hush  of  the  beautiful  church, 
the  afternoon  sunlight  streaming  through 
the  oriel  window,  and  —  visible  through  the 
doorway  arch — the  roses  waving  among  the 
churchyard  graves. 

In  the  days  of  Shakespeare's  courtship, 
when  he  strolled  across  the  fields  to  Anne 
Hathaway' s  cottage  at  Shottery,  his  path, 
we  may  be  sure,  ran  through  wild  pasture- 
land  and  tangled  thicket.  A  fourth  part 
of  England  at  that  time  was  a  wilderness, 
and  the  entire  population  of  that  country 


254     THE   SHRINES   OF  WARWICKSHIRE. 

did  not  exceed  five  millions  of  persons.  The 
Stratford-on-Avon  of  to-day  is  still  pos- 
sessed of  some  of  its  ancient  features  ;  but 
the  region  round  about  it  then  must  have 
been  rude  and  wild  in  comparison  with  what 
it  is  at  present.  If  you  walk  in  the  foot- 
path to  Shottery  now  you  will  pass  between 
low  fences  and  along  the  margin  of  gardens, 
—  now  in  the  sunshine,  and  now  in  the 
shadow  of  larch  and  chestnut  and  elm, 
while  the  sweet  air  blows  upon  your  face 
and  the  expeditious  rook  makes  rapid  wing 
to  the  woodland,  cawing  as  he  flies.  In  the 
old  cottage,  with  its  roof  of  thatch,  its 
crooked  rafters,  its  odorous  hedges  and 
climbing  vines,  its  leafy  well  and  its  tan- 
gled garden,  everything  remains  the  same. 
Mrs.  Mary  Taylor  Baker,  the  last  living  de- 
scendant of  the  Hathaway s,  born  in  this 
house,  always  a  resident  here,  and  now  an 
elderly  woman,  still  has  it  in  her  keeping, 
and  still  displays  to  you  the  ancient  carved 
bedstead  in  the  garret,  the  wooden  settle 
by  the  kitchen  fireside,  the  hearth  at  which 
Shakespeare  sat,  the  great  blackened  chim- 
ney with  its  adroit  iron  "  fish -back  "  for  the 
better  regulation  of  the  tea-kettle,  and  the 
brown  and  tattered  Bible  with  the  Hatha- 
way family  record.     Sitting  in  an  old  arm- 


THE   SHRINES    OF  WARWICKSHIRE.     255 

chair,  in  the  corner  of  Anne  Hathaway1  s 
bedroom,  I  could  hear  in  the  perfumed 
summer  stillness,  the  low  twittering  of 
birds,  whose  nest  is  in  the  covering  thatch 
and  whose  songs  would  awaken  the  sleeper 
at  the  earliest  light  of  dawn.  A  better  idea 
can  be  obtained  in  this  cottage  than  in 
either  the  birthplace  or  any  other  Shake- 
spearean haunt  of  what  the  real  life  actually 
was  of  the  common  people  of  England  in 
Shakespeare's  day.  The  stone  floor  and 
oak  timbers  of  the  Hathaway  kitchen, 
stained  and  darkened  in  the  slow  decay  of 
three  hundred  years,  have  lost  no  particle 
of  their  pristine  character.  The  occupant 
of  the  cottage  has  not  been  absent  from  it 
more  than  a  week  during  upward  of  half  a 
century.  In  such  a  nook  the  inherited 
habits  of  living  do  not  alter.  "  The  thing 
that  has  been  is  the  thing  that  shall  be," 
and  the  customs  of  long  ago  are  the  customs 
of  to-day. 

The  Red  Horse  inn  is  in  new  hands  now 
(William  Gardner  Colbourne  having  suc- 
ceeded his  uncle  Mr.  Gardner),  and  it  seems 
brighter  than  of  old  — without,  however, 
having  parted  with  either  its  antique  furni- 
ture or  its  delightful  antique  ways.  The 
old  mahogany  and  wax-candle  period  has 


256     THE    SHRINES   OF  WARWICKSHIRE. 

not  ended  yet  in  this  happy  place,  and  yon 
sink  to  sleep  on  a  snow-white  pillow,  soft 
as  down  and  fragrant  as  lavender.  One  im- 
portant change  is  especially  to  be  remarked. 
They  have  made  a  niche  in  a  comer  of 
Washington  Irving' s  parlour,  and  in  it  have 
placed  his  arm-chair,  recushioned  and  pol- 
ished, and  sequestered  from  touch  by  a 
large  sheet  of  plate-glass.  The  relic  may 
still  be  seen,  but  the  pilgrim  can  sit  upon  it 
no  more.  Perhaps  it  might  be  well  to  en- 
shrine "Geoffrey  Crayon's  Sceptre"  in  a 
somewhat  similar  way.  It  could  be  fas- 
tened to  a  shield,  displaying  the  American 
colours,  and  hung  up  in  this  storied  room. 
At  present  it  is  the  tenant  of  a  starred  and 
striped  bag,  and  keeps  its  state  in  the  seclu- 
sion of  a  bureau  ;  nor  is  it  shown  except 
upon  request — like  the  beautiful  marble 
statute  of  Donne,  in  his  shroud,  niched  in 
the  chancel  wall  of  St.  Paul's  cathedral.1 

*A  few  effigies  are  all  that  remain  of  old  St. 
Paul's.  The  most  important  and  interesting  of 
them  is  that  shrouded  statue  of  the  poet  John 
Donne,  who  was  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  from  1621  to 
1631,  dying  in  the  latter  year,  aged  58.  This  is  in 
the  south  aisle  of  the  chancel,  in  a  niche  in  the  wall. 
You  will  not  see  it  unless  you  ask  the  privilege. 
The  other  relics  are  in  the  crypt  and  iu  the  church- 
yard. There  is  nothing  to  indicate  the  place  of  the 
grave  of  John  of  Gaunt  or  that  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 
Old  St.  Paul's  was  burned  September  2,  1666. 


THE    SHRINES    OF  WARWICKSHIRE.     257 

One  of  the  strongest  instincts  of  the  Eng- 
lish character  is  the  instinct  of  permanence. 
It  acts  involuntarily,  it  pervades  the  national 
life,  and,  as  Pope  said  of  the  universal  soul, 
it  operates  unspent.  Institutions  seem  to 
have  grown  out  of  human  nature  in  this 
country,  and  are  as  much  its  expression  as 
blossoms,  leaves,  and  flowers  are  the  ex- 
pression of  inevitable  law.  A  custom,  in 
England,  once  established,  is  seldom  or 
never  changed.  The  brilliant  career,  the 
memorable  achievement,  the  great  char- 
acter, once  fulfilled,  takes  a  permanent 
shape  in  some  kind  of  outward  and  visible 
memorial,  some  absolute  and  palpable  fact, 
which  thenceforth  is  an  accepted  part  of  the 
history  of  the  land  and  the  experience  of  its 
people.  England  means  stability  —  the  fire- 
side and  the  altar .  home  here  and  heaven 
hereafter ;  and  this  is  the  secret  of  the 
power  that  she  wields  in  the  affairs  of  the 
world  and  the  charm  that  she  diffuses  over 
the  domain  of  thought.  Such  a  temple  as  St. 
Paul's  cathedral,  such  a  palace  as  Hampton 
Court,  such  a  castle  as  that  of  Windsor  or 
that  of  Warwick,  is  the  natural,  sponta- 
neous expression  of  the  English  instinct  of 
permanence  ;  and  it  is  in  memorials  like 
these  that  England  has  written  her  history, 

R 


258     THE    SHRINES    OF  WARWICKSHIRE. 

with  symbols  that  can  perish  only  with 
time  itself.  At  intervals  her  latent  animal 
ferocity  breaks  loose  —  as  it  did  under  Henry 
the  Eighth,  under  Mary,  under  Cromwell, 
and  under  James  the  Second,  —  and  for  a 
brief  time  ramps  and  bellows,  striving  to 
deface  and  deform  the  surrounding  struc- 
ture of  beauty  that  has  been  slowly  and 
painfully  reared  out  of  her  deep  heart  and 
her  sane  civilisation.  But  the  tears  of 
human  pity  soon  quench  the  fire  of  Smith  - 
field,  and  it  is  only  for  a  little  while  that 
the  Puritan  soldiers  play  at  nine-pins  in  the 
nave  of  St.  Paul's.  This  fever  of  animal 
impulse,  this  wild  revolt  of  petulant  impa- 
tience, is  soon  cooled  ;  and  then  the  great 
work  goes  on  again,  as  calmly  and  surely  as 
before  —  that  great  work  of  educating  man- 
kind to  the  level  of  constitutional  liberty,  in 
which  England  has  been  engaged  for  well- 
nigh  a  thousand  years,  and  in  which  the 
American  Republic,  though  sometimes  at 
variance  with  her  methods  and  her  spirit, 
is,  nevertheless,  her  follower  and  the  con- 
sequence of  her  example.  Our  Declaration 
was  made  in  1776 :  the  Declaration  to  the 
Prince  of  Orange  is  dated  1689,  and  the  Bill 
of  Rights  in  1628,  while  Magna  Charta  was 
secured  in  1215. 


THE  SHRINES   OF  WARWICKSHIRE.      259 

Throughout  every  part  of  this  sumptuous 
and  splendid  domain  of  Warwickshire  the 
symbols  of  English  stability  and  the  relics 
of  historic  times  are  numerous  and  deeply 
impressive.  At  Stratford  the  reverence  of 
the  nineteenth  century  takes  its  practical, 
substantial  form,  not  alone  in  the  honour- 
able preservation  of  the  ancient  Shake- 
spearean shrines,  but  in  the  Shakespeare 
Memorial.  That  fabric,  though  mainly  due 
to  the  fealty  of  England,  is  also,  to  some 
extent,  representative  of  the  practical  sym- 
pathy of  America.  Several  Americans  — 
Edwin  Booth,  Herman  Vezin,  M.  D.  Con- 
way, and  W.  H.  Reynolds  among  them  — 
are  contributors  to  the  fund  that  built  it, 
and  an  American  gentlewoman,  Miss  Kate 
Field,  has  worked  for  its  cause  with  excel- 
lent zeal,  untiring  fidelity,  and  good  results. 
(Miss  Mary  Anderson  acted  — 1885 — in  the 
Memorial  Theatre  for  its  benefit,  present- 
ing for  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  charac- 
ter of  Rosalind. )  It  is  a  noble  monument. 
It  stands  upon  the  margin  of  the  Avon,  not 
distant  from  the  church  of  the  Holy  Trinity, 
which  is  Shakespeare's  grave  ;  so  that  these 
two  buildings  are  the  conspicuous  points  of 
the  landscape,  and  seem  to  confront  each 
other  with  sympathetic  greeting,  as  if  con- 


26o      THE   SHRINES   OF  WARWICKSHIRE. 

scious  of  their  sacred  trust.  The  vacant  land 
adjacent,  extending  between  the  road  and 
the  river,  is  a  part  of  the  Memorial  estate, 
and  is  to  be  converted  into  a  garden,  with 
pathways,  shade-trees,  and  flowers, — by 
means  of  which  the  prospect  will  be  made 
still  fairer  than  now  it  is,  and  will  be 
kept  forever  unbroken  between  the  Memo- 
rial and  the  Church.  Under  this  ample 
roof  are  already  united  a  theatre,  a  library, 
and  a  hall  of  pictures.  The  drop-curtain, 
illustrating  the  processional  progress  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  when  "going  to  the  Globe 
Theatre,"  is  gay  but  incorrect.  The  divis- 
ions of  seats  are  in  conformity  with  the 
inconvenient  arrangements  of  the  London 
theatre  of  to-day.  Queen  Elizabeth  heard 
plays  in  the  hall  of  the  Middle  Temple, 
the  hall  of  Hampton  Palace,  and  at  Green- 
wich and  at  Richmond  ;  but  she  never  went 
to  the  Globe  Theatre.  In  historic  temples 
there  should  be  no  trifling  with  historic 
themes  ;  and  surely,  in  a  theatre  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  dedicated  to  Shake- 
speare, while  no  fantastic  regard  should  be 
paid  to  the  usages  of  the  past,  it  would  be 
tasteful  and  proper  to  blend  the  best  of 
ancient  ways  with  all  the  luxury  and  ele- 
gance of  these  times.     It  is  much,  however, 


THE   SHRINES   OF  WARWICKSHIRE.      26 1 

to  have  built  what  can  readily  be  made  a 
lovely  theatre  ;  and  meanwhile,  through  the 
affectionate  generosity  of  friends  in  all  parts 
of  the  world,  the  library  shelves  are  con- 
tinually gathering  treasures,  and  the  hall 
of  paintings  is  growing  more  and  more  the 
imposing  expository  that  it  was  intended  to 
be  of  Shakespearean  poetry  and  the  history 
of  the  English  stage.  Many  faces  of  actors 
appear  upon  these  walls  —  from  Garrick  to 
Edmund  Kean,  from  Macready  to  Henry 
Irving,  from  Kemble  to  Edwin  Booth, 
from  Mrs.  Siddons  to  Mary  Anderson. 
Prominent  among  the  pictures  is  a  spirited 
portrait  of  Garrick  and  his  wife,  playing  at 
cards,  wherein  the  lovely  laughing  lady 
archly  discloses  that  her  hands  are  full  of 
hearts.  Not  otherwise,  truly,  is  it  with 
sweet  and  gentle  Stratford  herself,  where 
peace  and  beauty  and  the  most  hallowed 
and  hallowing  of  poetic  associations  garner 
up,  forever  and  forever,  the  hearts  of  all 
mankind. 

In  previous  papers  upon  this  subject  I 
have  tried  to  express  the  feelings  that  are 
excited  by  personal  contact  with  the  relics 
of  Shakespeare  —  the  objects  that  he  saw 
and  the  fields  through  which  he  wandered. 
Fancy  would  never  tire  of  lingering  in  this 


262      THE   SHRINES   OF  WARWICKSHIRE. 

delicious  region  of  flowers  and  of  dreams. 
From  the  hideous  vileness  of  the  social  con- 
dition of  London  in  the  time  of  James  the 
First  Shakespeare  must  indeed  have  re- 
joiced to  depart  into  this  blooming  garden 
of  rustic  tranquillity.  Here  also  he  could 
find  the  surroundings  that  were  needful  to 
sustain  him  amid  the  vast  and  overwhelm- 
ing labours  of  his  final  period.  No  man, 
however  great  his  powers,  can  ever,  in  this 
world,  escape  from  the  trammels  under 
which  nature  enjoins  and  permits  the  exer- 
cise of  the  brain.  Ease,  in  the  intellectual 
life,  is  always  visionary.  The  higher  a 
man's  faculties  the  higher  are  his  ideals,  — 
toward  which,  under  the  operation  of  a 
divine  law,  he  must  perpetually  strive,  but 
to  the  height  of  which  he  will  never  abso- 
lutely attain.  So,  inevitably,  it  was  with 
Shakespeare.  But,  although  genius  cannot 
escape  from  itself  and  is  no  more  free  than 
the  humblest  toiler  in  the  vast  scheme  of 
creation,  it  may  —  and  it  must  —  sometimes 
escape  from  the  world :  and  this  wise  poet, 
of  all  men  else,  would  surely  recognise  and 
strongly  grasp  the  great  privilege  of  solitude 
amid  the  sweetest  and  most  soothing  ad- 
juncts of  natural  beauty.  That  privilege 
he  found   in   the  sparkling  and   fragrant 


THE   SHRINES   OF   WARWICKSHIRE.      263 

gardens  of  Warwick,  the  woods  and  fields 
and  waters  of  Avon,  where  he  had  played 
as  a  boy,  and  where  love  had  laid  its  first 
kiss  upon  his  lips  and  poetry  first  opened 
upon  his  inspired  vision  the  eternal  glories 
of  her  celestial  world.  It  still  abides  there, 
for  every  gentle  soul  that  can  feel  its  influ- 
ence— to  deepen  the  glow  of  noble  passion, 
to  soften  the  sting  of  grief,  and  to  touch  the 
lips  of  worship  with  a  fresh  sacrament  of 
patience  and  beauty. 


THE  ANNE   HATHAWAY   COTTAGE. 

April,  1892. — A  record  that  all  lovers  of 
the  Shakespeare  shrines  have  long  wished  to 
make  can  at  last  be  made.  The  Anne  Hatha- 
way Cottage  has  been  bought  for  the  British 
Nation,  and  that  building  will  henceforth  be 
one  of  the  Amalgamated  Trusts  that  are 
guarded  by  the  corporate  authorities  of  Strat- 
ford. The  other  Trusts  are  the  Birthplace, 
the  Museum,  and  New  Place.  The  Mary 
Arden  Cottage,  the  home  of  Shakespeare's 
mother,  is  yet  to  be  acquired. 


264        A  BORROWER  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


XXII. 
A    BORROWER   OF    THE   NIGHT. 

u  I  must  become  a  borrower  of  the  night, 
For  a  dark  hour  or  twain."  —  Macbeth. 

MIDNIGHT  has  just  sounded  from  the 
tower  of  St.  Martin.  It  is  a  peaceful 
night,  faintly  lit  with  stars,  and  in  the  region 
round  about  Trafalgar  Square  a  dream-like 
stillness  broods  over  the  darkened  city, 
now  slowly  hushing  itself  to  its  brief  and 
troubled  rest.  This  is  the  centre  of  the 
heart  of  modern  civilisation,  the  middle 
of  the  greatest  city  in  the  world  —  the  vast, 
seething  alembic  of  a  grand  future,  the 
stately  monument  of  a  deathless  past. 
Here,  alone,  in  my  quiet  room  of  this  old 
English  inn,  let  me  meditate  a  while  on  some 
of  the  scenes  that  are  near  me  —  the  strange, 
romantic,  sad,  grand  objects  that  I  have 
seen,  the  memorable  figures  of  beauty, 
genius,  and  renown  that  haunt  this  classic 
land. 


A  BORROWER  OF  THE  NIGHT.        265 

How  solemn  and  awful  now  must  be  the 
gloom  within  the  walls  of  the  Abbey  !  A 
walk  of  only  a  few  minutes  would  bring  me 
to  its  gates  —  the  gates  of  the  most  renowned 
mausoleum  on  earth.  No  human  foot  to- 
night invades  its  sacred  precincts.  The  dead 
alone  possess  it.  I  see,  upon  its  gray  walls, 
the  marble  figures,  white  and  spectral,  star- 
ing through  the  darkness.  I  hear  the  night- 
wind  moaning  around  its  lofty  towers  and 
faintly  sobbing  in  the  dim,  mysterious 
spaces  beneath  its  fretted  roof.  Here  and 
there  a  ray  of  starlight,  streaming  through 
the  sumptuous  rose  window,  falls  and  lin- 
gers, in  ruby  or  emerald  gleam,  on  tomb, 
or  pillar,  or  dusky  pavement.  Rustling 
noises,  vague  and  fearful,  float  from  those 
dim  chapels  where  the  great  kings  lie  in 
state,  with  marble  effigies  recumbent  above 
their  bones.  At  such  an  hour  as  this,  in 
such  a  place,  do  the  dead  come  out  of  their 
graves  ?  The  resolute,  implacable  Queen 
Elizabeth,  the  beautiful,  ill-fated  Queen  of 
Scots,  the  royal  boys  that  perished  in  the 
Tower,  Charles  the  Merry  and  William  the 
Silent — are  these,  and  such  as  these,  among 
the  phantoms  that  fill  the  haunted  aisles  ? 
What  a  wonderful  company  it  would  be, 
for  human  eyes  to  behold  !    And  with  what 


266        A   BORROWER   OF   THE  NIGHT. 

passionate  love  or  hatred,  what  amazement, 
or  what  haughty  scorn,  its  members  would 
look  upon  each  other's  faces,  in  this  mirac- 
ulous meeting  ?  Here,  through  the  glim- 
mering, icy  waste,  would  pass  before  the 
watcher  the  august  shades  of  the  poets  of 
five  hundred  years.  Now  would  glide  the 
ghosts  of  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Jonson,  Beau- 
mont, Dryden,  Cowley,  Congreve,  Addison, 
Prior,  Campbell,  Garrick,  Burke,  Sheridan, 
Newton,  and  Macaulay  —  children  of  divine 
genius,  that  here  mingled  with  the  earth. 
The  grim  Edward,  who  so  long  ravaged 
Scotland  ;  the  blunt,  chivalrous  Henry,  who 
conquered  France  ;  the  lovely,  lamentable 
victim  at  Pomfret,  and  the  harsh,  haughty, 
astute  victor  at  Bosworth;  James  with  his 
babbling  tongue,  and  William  with  his  im- 
passive, predominant  visage  —  they  would 
all  mingle  with  the  spectral  multitude  and 
vanish  into  the  gloom.  Gentler  faces,  too, 
might  here  once  more  reveal  their  loveliness 
and  their  grief  —  Eleanor  de  Bohun,  broken- 
hearted for  her  murdered  lord ;  Elizabeth 
Claypole,  the  meek,  merciful,  beloved  daugh- 
ter of  Cromwell ;  Matilda,  Queen  to  Henry 
the  Eirst,  and  model  of  every  grace  and 
virtue  ;  and  sweet  Anne  Neville,  destroyed 
—  as   many   think  —  by   the    politic  craft 


A  BORROWER  OF  THE  NIGHT.        267 

of  Gloster.     Strange  sights,  truly,  in  the 
lonesome  Abbey  to-night ! 

In  the  sombre  crypt  beneath  St.  Paul's 
cathedral  how  thrilling  now  must  be  the 
heavy  stillness  !  No  sound  can  enter  there. 
No  breeze  from  the  upper  world  can  stir  the 
dust  upon  those  massive  sepulchres.  Even 
in  day-time  that  shadowy  vista,  with  its 
groined  arches  and  the  black  tombs  of 
Wellington  and  Nelson  and  the  ponderous 
funeral-car  of  the  Iron  Duke,  is  seen  with 
a  shudder.  How  strangely,  how  fearfully 
the  mind  would  be  impressed,  of  him  who 
should  wander  there  to-night !  What  sub- 
lime reflections  would  be  his,  standing  beside 
the  ashes  of  the  great  admiral,  and  think- 
ing of  that  fiery,  dauntless  spirit  —  so  sim- 
ple, resolute,  and  true  —  who  made  the 
earth  and  the  seas  alike  resound  with  the 
splendid  tumult  of  his  deeds.  Somewhere 
beneath  this  pavement  is  the  dust  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  —  buried  here  before  the  de- 
struction of  the  old  cathedral,  in  the  great 
fire  of  1666  —  and  here,  too,  is  the  nameless 
grave  of  the  mighty  Duke  of  Lancaster, 
John  of  Gaunt.  Shakespeare  was  only 
twenty-two  years  old  when  Sidney  fell,  at 
the  battle  of  Zutphen,  and,  being  then  resi- 
dent in  London,  he  might  readily  have  seen, 


268        A   BORROWER   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

and  doubtless  did  see,  the  splendid  funeral 
procession  with  which  the  body  of  that 
heroic  gentleman  —  radiant  and  immortal 
example  of  perfect  chivalry  —  was  borne  to 
the  tomb.  Hither  came  Henry  of  Hereford 
—  returning  from  exile  and  deposing  the 
handsome,  visionary,  useless  Richard — to 
mourn  over  the  relics  of  his  father,  dead 
of  sorrow  for  his  son's  absence  and  his 
country's  shame.  Here,  at  the  venerable 
age  of  ninety-one,  the  glorious  brain  of 
Wren  found  rest  at  last,  beneath  the  stu- 
pendous temple  that  himself  had  reared. 
The  watcher  in  the  crypt  to-night  would 
see,  perchance,  or  fancy  that  he  saw,  those 
figures  from  the  storied  past.  Beneath  this 
roof  —  the  soul  and  the  perfect  symbol  of 
sublimity!  —  are  ranged  more  than  four- 
score monuments  to  heroic  martial  persons 
who  have  died  for  England,  by  land  or  sea. 
Here,  too,  are  gathered  in  everlasting  re- 
pose the  honoured  relics  of  men  who  were 
famous  in  the  arts  of  peace.  Reynolds  and 
Opie,  Lawrence  and  West,  Landseer,  Tur- 
ner, Cruikshank,  and  many  more,  sleep 
under  the  sculptured  pavement  where  now 
the  pilgrim  walks.  For  fifteen  centuries  a 
Christian  church  has  stood  upon  this  spot, 
and  through  it  has  poured,  with  organ  strains 


A  BORROWER   OF  THE  NIGHT.        269 

and  glancing  lights,  an  endless  procession 
of  prelates  and  statesmen,  of  poets  and  war- 
riors and  kings.  Surely  this  is  hallowed  and 
haunted  ground  !  Surely  to  him  the  spirits 
of  the  mighty  dead  would  be  very  near, 
who  —  alone,  in  the  darkness  —  should  stand 
to-night  within  those  sacred  walls,  and  hear, 
beneath  that  awful  dome,  the  mellow  thun- 
der of  the  bells  of  God. 

How  looks,  to-night,  the  interior  of  the 
chapel  of  the  Foundling  hospital  ?  Dark 
and  lonesome,  no  doubt,  with  its  heavy  gal- 
leries and  sombre  pews,  and  the  great  organ 
—  Handel's  gift  —  standing  there,  mute  and 
grim,  between  the  ascending  tiers  of  empty 
seats.  But  never,  in  my  remembrance,  will 
it  cease  to  present  a  picture  more  impressive 
and  touching  than  words  can  say.  Scores 
of  white-robed  children,  rescued  from  shame 
and  penury  by  this  noble  benevolence,  were 
ranged  around  that  organ  when  I  saw  it, 
and,  in  their  artless,  frail  little  voices,  sing- 
ing a  hymn  of  praise  and  worship.  Well-nigh 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years  have  passed 
since  this  grand  institution  of  charity  —  the 
sacred  work  and  blessed  legacy  of  Captain 
Thomas  Coram  —  was  established  in  this 
place.  What  a  divine  good  it  has  accom- 
plished, and  continues  to  accomplish,  and 


27O        A   BORROWER   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

what  a  pure  glory  hallows  its  founder's 
name  !  Here  the  poor  mother,  betrayed 
and  deserted,  may  take  her  child  and  find 
for  it  a  safe  and  happy  home  and  a  chance 
in  life  —  nor  will  she  herself  be  turned 
adrift  without  sympathy  and  help.  The 
poet  and  novelist  George  Croly  was  once 
chaplain  of  the  Foundling  hospital,  and  he 
preached  some  noble  sermons  there  ;  but 
these  were  thought  to  be  above  the  compre- 
hension of  his  usual  audience,  and  he  pres- 
ently resigned  the  place.  Sidney  Smith 
often  spoke  in  this  pulpit,  when  a  young 
man.  It  was  an  aged  clergyman  who 
preached  there  within  my  hearing,  and  I 
remember  he  consumed  the  most  part  of  an 
hour  in  saying  that  a  good  way  in  which  to 
keep  the  tongue  from  speaking  evil  is  to 
keep  the  heart  kind  and  pure.  Better  than 
any  sermon,  though,  was  the  spectacle  of 
those  poor  children,  rescued  out  of  their 
helplessness  and  reared  in  comfort  and 
affection.  Several  fine  works  of  art  are 
owned  by  this  hospital  and  shown  to  visi- 
tors —  paintings  by  Gainsborough  and  Key- 
nolds,  and  a  portrait  of  Captain  Coram,  by 
Hogarth.  May  the  turf  lie  lightly  on  him, 
and  daisies  and  violets  deck  his  hallowed 
grave  !    No  man  ever  did  a  better  deed 


A  BORROWER   OF   THE   NIGHT.        27 1 

than  he,  and  the  darkest  night  that  ever 
was  cannot  darken  his  fame. 

How  dim  and  silent  now  are  all  those 
narrow  and  dingy  little  streets  and  lanes 
around  Paul's  churchyard  and  the  Temple, 
where  Johnson  and  Goldsmith  loved  to 
ramble  !  More  than  once  have  I  wandered 
there,  in  the  late  hours  of  the  night,  meet- 
ing scarce  a  human  creature,  but  conscious 
of  a  royal  company  indeed,  of  the  wits  and 
poets  and  players  of  a  far-off  time.  Dark- 
ness now,  on  busy  Smithfield,  where  once 
the  frequent,  cruel  flames  of  bigotry  shed 
forth  a  glare  that  sickened  the  light  of  day. 
Murky  and  grim  enough  to-night  is  that 
grand  processional  walk  in  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's church,  where  the  great  gray  pillars 
and  splendid  Norman  arches  of  the  twelfth 
century  are  mouldering  in  neglect  and  decay. 
Sweet  to  fancy  and  dear  in  recollection,  the 
old  church  comes  back  to  me  now,  with  the 
sound  of  children's  voices  and  the  wail  of 
the  organ  strangely  breaking  on  its  pensive 
rest.  Stillness  and  peace  over  arid  Bunhill 
Fields  —  the  last  haven  of  many  a  Puritan 
worthy,  and  hallowed  to  many  a  pilgrim  as 
the  resting-place  of  Bunyan  and  of  Watts. 
In  many  a  park  and  gloomy  square  the 
watcher  now  would  hear  only  a  rustling  of 


272        A  BORROWER   OF   THE  NIGHT. 

leaves  or  the  fretful  twitter  of  half-awakened 
hirds.  Around  Primrose  Hill  and  out  toward 
Hampstead  many  a  night-walk  have  I  taken* 
that  seemed  like  rambling  in  a  desert  —  so 
dark  and  still  are  the  walled  houses,  so  per- 
fect is  the  solitude.  In  Drury  Lane,  even 
at  this  late  hour,  there  would  be  some 
movement ;  but  cold  and  dense  as  ever  the 
shadows  are  resting  on  that  little  graveyard 
behind  it  where  Lady  Dedlock  went  to  die. 
To  walk  in  Bow  Street  now,  — might  it  not 
be  to  meet  the  shades  of  Waller  and  Wycher- 
ley  and  Betterton,  who  lived  and  died  there  ; 
to  have  a  greeting  from  the  silver-tongued 
Barry ;  or  to  see,  in  draggled  lace  and  ruffles, 
the  stalwart  figure  and  flushed  and  royster- 
ing  countenance  of  Henry  Fielding?  Very 
quiet  now  are  those  grim  stone  chambers 
in  the  terrible  Tower  of  London,  where  so 
many  tears  have  fallen  and  so  many  no- 
ble hearts  been  split  with  sorrow.  Does 
Brackenbury  still  kneel  in  the  cold,  lonely, 
vacant  chapel  of  St.  John ;  or  the  sad  ghost 
of  Monmouth  hover  in  the  chancel  of  St. 
Peter's  ?  How  sweet  to-night  would  be 
the  rustle  of  the  ivy  on  the  dark  walls  of 
Hadley  church,  where  late  I  breathed  the 
rose-scented  air  and  heard  the  warbling 
thrush,  and  blessed,  with  a  grateful  heart, 


A  BORROWER   OF   THE   NIGHT.         273 

the  loving  kindness  that  makes  such  beauty 
in  the  world !  Out  there  on  the  hillside  of 
Highgate,  populous  with  death,  the  star- 
light gleams  on  many  a  ponderous  tomb 
and  the  white  marble  of  many  a  sculptured 
statue,  where  dear  and  famous  names  will 
lure  the  traveller's  footsteps  for  years  to 
come.  There  Lyndhurst  rests,  in  honour 
and  peace,  and  there  is  hushed  the  tuneful 
voice  of  Dempster  —  never  to  be  heard  any 
more,  either  when  snows  are  flying  or 
"when  green  leaves  come  again."  Not 
many  days  have  passed  since  I  stood  there, 
by  the  humble  gravestone  of  poor  Charles 
Harcourt,  and  remembered  all  the  gentle  en- 
thusiasm with  which,  five  years  ago  (1877), 
he  spoke  to  me  of  the  character  of  Jacques 
—  which  he  loved  —  and  how  well  he  re- 
peated the  immortal  lines  upon  the  drama 
of  human  life.  For  him  the  "strange, 
eventful  history ' '  came  early  and  suddenly 
to  an  end.  In  that  ground,  too,  I  saw  the 
sculptured  medallion  of  the  well-beloved 
George  Honey —  "  all  his  frolics  o'er  "  and 
nothing  left  but  this.  Many  a  golden  mo- 
ment did  we  have,  old  friend,  and  by  me 
thou  art  not  forgotten  !  The  lapse  of  a  few 
years  changes  the  whole  face  of  life  ;  but 
nothing  can  ever  take  from  us  our  memo- 

s 


274        A   BORROWER   OF   THE  NIGHT. 

ries  of  the  past.  Here,  around  me,  in  the 
still  watches  of  the  night,  are  the  faces  that 
will  never  smile  again,  and  the  voices  that 
will  speak  no  more  —  Sothern,  with  his  sil- 
ver hair  and  bright  and  kindly  smile,  from 
the  spacious  cemetery  of  Southampton  ;  and 
droll  Harry  Beckett  and  poor  Adelaide 
Neilson  from  dismal  Brompton.  And  if  I 
look  from  yonder  window  I  shall  not  see 
either  the  lions  of  Landseer  or  the  homeless 
and  vagrant  wretches  who  sleep  around 
them ;  hut  high  in  her  silver  chariot,  sur- 
rounded with  all  the  pomp  and  splendour 
that  royal  England  knows,  and  marching  to 
her  coronation  in  Westminster  Abbey,  the 
beautiful  figure  of  Anne  Boleyn,  with  her 
dark  eyes  full  of  triumph  and  her  torrent 
of  golden  hair  flashing  in  the  sun.  On 
this  spot  is  written  the  whole  history  of 
a  mighty  empire.  Here  are  garnered  up 
such  loves  and  hopes,  such  memories  and 
sorrows,  as  can  never  be  spoken.  Pass,  ye 
shadows  !  Let  the  night  wane  and  the 
morning  break. 


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